Merlin Und Freya
by Adelina Le Morte March
Summary: When Freya is brought back to life, mistaken for a noblewoman and close friend of Camelot, pushed by King Uther into a marriage with an also less than willing Arthur, Merlin finds himself being set up to commit the ultimate act of treason. Because of his magic, he's used to committing treason against Uther's rules, but not betraying Arthur. Merlin/Freya/Arthur & some Arthur/Gwen.
1. The Fairy Lady of Shalott

**AN: Although the title and a few other things you might pick up on as the fanfic progresses were inspired by "Tristan and Isolde", including the love triangle element (I had a lot of fun working with the whole Merlin/Freya/Arthur thing in my last fic "The End of Magic" so I was very excited to sort of revisit that concept again but in a new way and without the crossover factor affecting the overall plot), it's not actually based on (nor does it follow the exact plot of) the legend, the Joseph Bedier book, the movie, or the opera which inspired the title. Nor is it fully intended to be a retelling of "The Lady of Shalott," though it has traces of it, especially in this first chapter.**

**Pairings: Merlin/Freya, Arthur/Gwen, and (for plot-related reasons) Merlin/Freya/Arthur. **

~Chapter one: The Fairy Lady of Shalott~

THE FLAMING BOAT drifted along the currents of the lake of Avalon. The young warlock responsible for setting it on fire, as a farewell, a makeshift yet royalty-worthy funeral of sorts for his dead beloved, had already left. He had watched the boat drift off, even hesitated slightly before using his magic to set it aflame, but then he had gone; returned, having largely to keep his grievous mourning a secret, to Camelot, where he worked as the prince's manservant.

If he had stayed a while longer, he might have been rather surprised to see the growing interest a sizable number of magical flying, brightly glowing, spheres had taken in the boat. (These were the Sidhe, fairies of Avalon.) Then, on the other hand, had he stayed, and been clearly visible, not concealed behind a tree or boulder or some other out-of-sight natural landmark, perhaps they mightn't have come out into the part of the lake connected to the mortal realm in broad daylight and there would have been nothing to see.

Nothing different, just the boat on fire continuing to float.

The bright blue glowing softened slightly and the Sidhe looked like sleek, somewhat elegant, yet undeniably semi-grotesque as well, little creatures only a mite bigger than some large insects, with somber faces that were both curious and stern.

They examined the boat, but it was hard to see what was in it with all that fire, so they put the fire out and found the half-burned face, charred dress, and singed black hair of the young outcast Druid girl who had died a tragic death, unloved and feared by most, yet sent off by the one person who _did _love her as if she were a great princess of some mighty and noble kingdom.

The eldest of the Sidhe elders weaved his way through the air, beating his clear, almost skeletal, dragonfly-like wings, and looked down at her. "Mostly dead," was his comment.

"Yes, quite," a servant Sidhe responded.

"Is it of any use to us?"

"A dead Druid girl?"

"We have great magic. She might be revived if it was to our benefit."

The fairies whispered in buzzing voices amongst each other, some views differing, some uninterested now that they knew there was nothing they wanted in the boat.

"Before death and cremation," said one, "she must have been nice to look at. For a gangly human in a feeble mortal shell, anyway."

"Her clothes are that of a noblewoman's, but our great powers reveal that she is not. Only a Druid, as we've known from first glance."

The Sidhe elder considered this for a moment. "She cannot fool us mighty Sidhe. What mortal _can_? But, alive, she could fool another, lesser race and give us something we want."

More buzzing followed. The Sidhe could be greedy, and they were intrigued by their elder's words.

He silenced them with a single flashing light in his small, cold eyes so he could finish. "If we were to restore her to life, taking away her burns and injures along with death, and making a changeling out of her, sending her then out into the world to do our bidding, mightn't Uther be tricked into making her the bride of his son? Which would give us something we have desired a long, long time: a Sidhe _queen_. And not just any Sidhe queen, but one who sits upon the throne of Camelot itself!"

"A splendid idea! But how would Uther be convinced to make her Arthur Pendragon's wife?"

"Very easily. The man is not so hard to control, he is only an aging duffer, terrified of being enchanted yet hopelessly unable to smell or spy an enchantment even if it hits him on the nose," said the Sidhe elder. "This is what we will do. We'll keep her in the boat, floating towards the shore, with a letter under her hand. This letter will say that she is a great lady of Astolat, a recently fallen kingdom that was a good and close ally of Camelot and Uther Pendragon."

"Her name," said a fairy, reading her burned face as if it were an ancient script of writing, "is Freya."

"We needn't change it. Uther will not notice the difference. He is too stupid. But we can make it sound grander." The Sidhe elder smiled slowly and proudly. "The High Born Lady Freya of Shalott."

"What of the Druid mark she bears?"

"Let us make it so that those without magic cannot easily behold the restored marking. Uther will rue having ruled out all magic, as only such ones would easily see the one clue of her true identity." The irony made the Sidhe elder's smirk deepen.

So the fairies set, wickedly, about their task; their magic made her skin fresh again, her breath and life-yes, her very _soul_-return to her body, her hair (parts of it having been turned to ashes by the flames) thick, full and dark once more, and her princess dress mend, beautiful as when it was first given her.

They were very prideful and satisfied with themselves and thus spoke, unconcerned, of their plan, repeating it many times over, unaware, unthinking, not even considering that the newly revived Freya might be overhearing their words, remembering. Nor did they think to swipe her memory or do anything to keep her from spilling their secrets. They were far too consumed with pleasure at the thought of their future Sidhe queen.

They had even been quarreling a bit over which fairy, which nobly-born Sidhe, was good enough to have the honour of being planted in their newly acquired changeling.

Finally it was settled that a well-loved Sidhe girl who, if anyone is interested in knowing this though it does not really come back into the story, was actually the first cousin of Sophia, a by then dead Sidhe who had come into Camelot sometime before and been killed in the end by the very same warlock who'd loved this Druid who was soon to be a changeling, would be the one.

But as fate and destiny themselves would have it, when Freya was ready, and they sent their fairy into her, it would not take. She writhed, rocking the boat back and forth, the fairy trying to take hold, her body fighting it automatically, instinctively.

At first, the Sidhe elder and the other fairies weren't in the least worried. They thought their future Sidhe queen would easily over-come this girl's natural resistance. Alas, they had not counted on three factors. One, the girl had magic; not like theirs, but magic nonetheless, some of which may have helped her. Two, the girl was no newborn baby, no child, which they would usually make changelings of; she was too old. And three, she was still cursed. The fairies of Avalon had seen her name and what she was in a glance, but they had missed what should have been most evident: that she was a Bastet still, the curse holding even in death (or near death, whichever it truly was), and the fairy within her would have to settle for being one, too, forever more; for being cursed _with_ her.

Unable to abide this upsetting fate, the fairy gave up the fight and died, exiting Freya and ceasing to exist in any form ever again.

The Sidhe elder was vivid with rage. His face was suddenly more glowing _white_ than blue. If he had been a very bit less angry and more thoughtful he might have destroyed her. Instead, in his fury, he magicked the boat away (in a move equivalent of a human without magic shoving or kicking it aside).

"Let the waif be at the pity and mercy of her own kind," said the Sidhe Elder, enraged, "or go straight to _Hell_-for all I care!"

ARTHUR AND MERLIN walked quietly through the forest a day or so later, out on a hunting trip. That is, _Arthur _walked quietly. Per the prince's sharp words, eye rolls, and occasional snorts of annoyance, Merlin made _plenty_ of noise, stepping down too hard on fragile twigs, speaking too loudly and at the wrong time, dropping the weapons he was supposed to be carrying, and tripping over his own two feet more than half of the time.

"Merlin," said Arthur, peevishly, looking over his shoulder at his servant, "I understand that you apparently can't help carrying my crossbow lopsided like it could fall from your grasp any moment, or stomping through these woods five paces behind me like an ogre, but must you breathe so loudly?"

"My loud _breathing_ is scaring the animals away..." Merlin repeated flatly, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I'm sure that's it," he added, insincerely, under his breath.

"Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, Sire."

"Come on, we're going this way."

Merlin saw which direction Arthur was indicating and felt himself grimace involuntarily. It was the lake. There was nothing significant to Arthur about that lake, but it was both where Merlin had first overheard Aulfric speaking to the Sidhe, plotting to give Arthur Pendragon's soul as a sacrifice to allow his daughter to return to Avalon, and, far more recently, said his final goodbyes to Freya. The shoreline of the lake was where Freya had died in his arms, promising one day to repay him for his kindness and love towards her. In short, he wasn't in a great hurry to go back there so soon, the hurt so fresh.

"Can't we go the other way?" Merlin asked quickly. "That path over there looks very...uh..._green_. That's where all the animals will be."

"You don't know the first thing about hunting animals," Arthur snorted.

"Yeah, but I know animals like to eat," Merlin prattled, a bit pathetically. "And they like green...things..."

"Green _things_?" Arthur repeated.

"Grass and big leaves and what-not," concluded Merlin, half-smiling in a forced, feeble manner.

"Merlin, is there a _reason_ you don't want to go the way I'm _telling_ you to?" Arthur's eyebrows went up challengingly.

"No, of course not," said Merlin. "It's just, you know, there's nothing that way. Nothing to look at. Except the lake."

"Merlin, we're not here to take in the scenery," Arthur told him.

"It's probably wet," Merlin blurted. "Down that way."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you not want to get your boots muddy?" he snapped sarcastically. "Don't be such a _girl_, Merlin! Come _on_."

They were just coming into sight of the lake, a mile or two up from where Merlin had originally sent Freya off, when Arthur stopped in his tracks and blinked. "What's that?"

"What?"

"That, over there." Arthur pointed, blinking again. "It looks like a small boat of some sort."

Merlin saw it, then. And recognized it. So the fire had gone out before consuming the boat, and, because nothing in his life could ever be easy or simple or forgotten, it had washed back up on the shores.

"I'm going to get a closer look."

"Arthur, don't. I'm sure it's nothing."

Arthur, naturally, didn't listen; he went on, first at a brisk fast-walk, then a near run, till he reached the side of the boat.

I hate this, thought Merlin, miserably. But at least Freya would, doubtless, be mostly ashes by now, so no chance of Arthur recognizing her. It was, however, rather sick that _that _was the bright side of things.

"Merlin!" Arthur called. "There's a girl in here."

"Dead," said Merlin.

He didn't actually phrase it as a question, but Arthur took it as such. He leaned closer. The girl was cold, very cold. But though she was cold as a corpse, he thought he heard a faint hum of raspy breath and saw her chest rise ever so slightly.

The first time, he was unsure. When she did it again, roughly half a minute later, Arthur was certain.

"Alive!" cried Arthur. "She's alive. Merlin, don't just stand there gawking, get over here and help me!"

Merlin felt frozen. There was a buzzing in his ears; his heart beat like a drum. Arthur's voice, now calling him a lazy lump of a servant, sounded distant, quite far away.

Freya was alive? No, it couldn't be. He must be mistaken; it was the wrong boat. It was only a boat that _looked_ like the one he'd put Freya in. It _had_ to be. Freya was gone. He'd loved her and she was gone. This had to be some other girl, set adrift on the lake. Although, it _was_ a staggering, not to mention unlikely, coincidence.

But was it any more unlikely than Freya coming back from the _dead_?

He watched numbly as Arthur lifted the girl out of the boat. One glance was all it took; there she was, Freya herself, in the same dress he'd stolen from Morgana's chambers, no signs of fire, cold and limp, but (according to Arthur, anyway) alive.

Finally, he rushed forward, ignoring Arthur's grumbles that it was about bloody time. "Light a fire," he ordered. "She's very cold and she needs heat."

_Arthur, you clodpole, if you wanted me to gather firewood you shouldn't have told me to come over here and help; you're giving me mixed signals!_ Merlin almost gritted his teeth in exasperation, but he was too stunned to put his thoughts into words. Furthermore, he could not take his eyes off of Freya's drooped form in Arthur's arms.

"Merlin," growled Arthur impatiently. "_Now_!"

He didn't want to leave her, even for a minute, worried Arthur would recognize her as the Druid who had been a Bastet; but, if he was right, and Freya needed heat... If this time he _could_ save her life... Merlin took off as if his feet had wings. Arthur had never see him move so fast.

As it happened, Arthur didn't recognize Freya as the Bastet. There were a few reasons for this. She was dressed as royalty, not a nomadic outlaw, for starters, and, for another thing, he had only seen the Bastet in her human form briefly and in the dark. She had spoken to him, shortly, and their eyes had met, but Arthur did not place the face of the weak girl in his arms that he was cautiously lowering to the ground as that of the cursed Druid. If he thought she looked a bit familiar, he resigned it simply to being that she reminded him, for some reason or other (perhaps it was the dark hair), a little of Morgana.

Then, of course, there was the letter. It fluttered out from under her arm, and as soon as Arthur had let go of her completely, he noticed it, caught it before it touched the ground, and began to read it.

Merlin returned with the firewood. It was too damp to light, but he struggled with the flint anyway, alternatively peeking at Freya and then looking back down at what his fumbling hands were trying to do. Finally, sure Arthur was preoccupied with the paper he was reading, Merlin quickly used his magic to light the wood.

There. Now Freya would have warmth.

It was a cruel thing those Sidhe had done, casting her away. They had restored her life, it was true, but not her strength. If she had become a changeling as they'd intended, she would have had their protection, but, in casting her off, they'd basically just ensured that if she was not found, she'd die all over again, and slowly. The Sidhe elder had said she could go to Hell for all he cared, and, hearing that, Freya had dimly sensed her forthcoming second demise and been resigned to it; but she had not thought Hell would be so bitterly cold. She was so numb she could just barely feel the arms that lifted her out of the boat. And, the little that she _did_ feel, she was half-convinced wasn't real; only a dream.

"She's a noblewoman," Arthur said, putting the letter aside. "From Astolat." Astolat was a friend of Camelot, before it was taken.

Merlin didn't care what or who Arthur thought she was, so long as he meant her no harm.

"Keep her warm," Arthur ordered next. "Make sure the fire doesn't go out and hold her close enough to it that she can feel the heat. I'm going to get the hunting blankets from the pack."

Merlin lifted her into his arms and did as Arthur said. Also, he took off the brown jerkin he wore over his tunic and put it around her shoulders, rubbing her arms and breathing hard on her chilled hands.

Suddenly Freya's eyes fluttered open.

Merlin felt his heart stop beating and his breath catch in his throat.

His form was blurry; she blinked, then saw him. She smiled. She wasn't sure how she had come to be with Merlin again, but she couldn't deny her delight over it. This was no Sidhe Hell; this was heaven, by the lake. Merlin was holding her, but she had no fatal wound this time, just a lot of coldness. And that coldness was slowly thawing. Freya didn't think she'd ever been so happy.

She opened her mouth, ready to speak his name and tell him what had happened, but then she saw him shake his head down at her.

Something was amiss. He knew her, as she knew him, but he didn't want her to react as if she recognized him.

Arthur returned. "She's awake."

She turned her head and saw him. Trembling, she murmured, "No...please..."

"Shh..." Merlin whispered. "It's all right. You're safe now."

How could she be safe? This was the same Arthur Pendragon whose blow had killed her. She could not forget the face of her killer, Merlin's master. More importantly: Uther Pendragon's son.

"Nothing is going to harm you," Arthur said, putting a blanket over her and crouching down beside them. "We're your friends, Lady Freya of Shalott. We come from Camelot. King Uther is my father."

Freya finally understood. The letter...the one the Sidhe had written...they hadn't destroyed it when they'd rid themselves of her... Arthur had read it, and believed she was a friend of Camelot. The plot the fairies had hatched was unfolding, just not the part about her body being the shell for a Sidhe queen.

"Thank you," mumbled Freya, weakly.

Perhaps they would leave her once she was warm enough. She could find her way in the woods, make a home for herself, try to avoid people so she wouldn't have to kill them when she turned into a Bastet... Merlin could come visit her from time to time, maybe. She'd had no problems controlling herself (even as a Bastet) around him; she would never hurt Merlin, so he was as safe with her as she was with him. Halig was dead now. He was the only person she wasn't actually sorry she'd killed. She hated that she was the cause of so much death, but she was also aware that she'd rid the world of one who would cause just as much harm as (if not more than) her curse did. She would, of course, have to be wary of others _like_ him; she knew she couldn't always trust people. But she could trust Merlin, and he would help her. And she would, in the midst of all this, find a way to repay him.

"We're taking you back to Camelot with us," Arthur told her. "I'm sure my father wouldn't want me to return you to Astolat, with the political state its in, and your own state of health. We have a physician at Camelot and spare rooms. You can get well there."

Freya began to tremble and cry. She couldn't go back to Camelot; to _Uther_! Uther would find her out! He would kill her! "Please, I'm well enough, please... I don't want... Please don't take me there."

Merlin was a little afraid. Uther didn't know Freya, but if he found out who she really was... He was willing to play games with his own life, every day, as he had no choice, really, in the matter, but he wouldn't gamble Freya's... She had magic; it wasn't safe for her.

On the other hand, he couldn't bear to leave her again, nor could he disobey Arthur's forthcoming orders that he put her on the horses, ignoring her pleas, which Arthur took for simple delirium.

What was reassuring was that, Merlin noticed, even when his eyes were directly in line with it, Arthur appeared incapable of seeing the Druid mark on her arm. He wasn't sure why that should be, but he was grateful for it.

If only he could be sure Uther would be the same...

"It's all right, Freya," Merlin whispered in her ear as he helped her onto the horse, speaking quickly so Arthur wouldn't hear. "I'll make sure they don't hurt you, I promise."

"Your troubles are over, Lady Freya," Arthur announced, mounting his own horse (Freya was sharing Merlin's).

_No..._ Freya shook in the saddle, only steadied by Merlin's protective grasp. _You're wrong, Arthur Pendragon, they've only just begun. I can feel it. _


	2. Freya, Ward de Camelot

~Chapter two: Freya, Ward de Camelot~

THE DOORS OF the great hall leading into the throne room were suddenly flung open.

Uther looked up to see his son half-supporting, half-dragging a black-haired, slightly disheveled and dazed-looking, girl garbed in a fine, noblewoman's dress that clung to the side of her arms which were damp with nervous cold perspiration. Her eyes were wide, frightened, but she looked harmless enough, dainty and lady-like, with no reason to fear trouble here at the royal court of Camelot.

Merlin had brought her there on his horse, and had been the one to help her down once they reached their destination, but as it was Arthur who led her in to see the king, to introduce her and tell his father about how they'd discovered her floating helplessly in a boat, half-frozen to death, he stood, as any decent servant who values his head and position in the royal household ought, behind Arthur, mouth shut, near the pillars. Uther didn't like to hear him speak, anyway; the king thought him an idiot and was even _less_ tolerant of his supposed mental affliction coupled with general incompetence than his son was. Merlin knew it was best to just keep out of his way for the most part. Of course, if something went wrong and the king recognized Freya as a Druid, _then_ that silent 'good servant' malarkey would have to go out the window. He'd _promised _her, after all, he wouldn't let them hurt her. He intended to keep that promise. But, for now, listening, waiting, and hoping for the best was all he could do. It wasn't even all that _hard_ to be quiet, for once; he was still in a state of shock about Freya being alive again, and that helped.

"Arthur," said Uther, looking confused and sitting up a little straighter on his throne. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Father," said Arthur, gently nudging Freya forward. "Meet the Lady of Shalott."

"Only the daughter of one lordship, that former protector of Astolat, could have that title." Uther rose from the throne.

Freya trembled; her lower lip quivered. _He can tell I'm not really from Astolat; he's going to find me out! _

"Yes," said Arthur, "we found her nearly dead in a cast-off boat on the lake. There was a letter..." He snapped his fingers for Merlin to come forward and give Uther the letter.

Sure _he_ brings in Freya and I'm just the letter carrier, Merlin thought, pulling it out and handing it over.

Uther read it, grew slightly misty-eyed, then folded it and handed it to his nearest attendant. "Lady Freya, I cannot tell you what an honour it is to have you here." He smiled at her and shook his head, as if in delighted disbelief. "Though it was many, many years since last I saw him, the news of Astolat's being taken over and your poor father's inevitable murder completely shattered me. For days, I was restless, wondering if any of his household had survived, though it seemed unlikely. I never had the honour of meeting my dear friend's wife and children, for they came long after we last saw each other. But seeing you here and now, knowing even one of his kin, one of Camelot's dearest allies still lives, fills me such such joy..." He paused to brush away an unexpected tear. "You can never understand how much this means to me; means to all nobles of Camelot who loved your family."

Freya couldn't believe her luck. Uther did not, right then, seem a horrid tyrant; did not at all match up with the stories she had heard, nor the images she'd formed in her own mind. Save for the crown on his head, he seemed a very ordinary-looking middle-aged man with a thickening waist and graying hair, not the head-chopping, child-drowning, heartless monster she had thought she was to be dragged before. Though, she thought she might have had more faith in Merlin than that. He would never hand her over to a monster, and she knew that. Probably, he thought this, if Uther was fooled, might well be the safest situation for her; no more running around and watching her back all the time.

All the same, she was still quite frightened. And it showed, clear as day, in the manner of which she shrunk back and could not make herself answer him; could not find it in her to reply to his enthusiastic welcome.

"Poor child," said Uther, coming nearer to her and holding out his hands, as if he thought she might reach out and take them or bow her head over them. "If only my enemies were as afraid of me as you are. You must have gone through a terrible ordeal, but know you have a safe-haven here. You need not be scared a moment longer."

Freya found her voice at last. It came out of her, almost involuntarily, in a small, raspy squeak. "There is kindness in your voice," she whispered to the floor, unable to meet his eyes. "I was not expecting that." Alas, if he knew who she _really_ was, would it not all be gone in an instant?

Uther's kindly gaze continued. "I only hope as you continue on as our guest, Camelot will have earned your trust." He sighed, then glanced over his shoulder. "Morgana, perhaps the Lady Freya will feel more comfortable with another noblewoman of her own age. You must be friends now, because you're both children of two of my dearest former allies and it falls on me to take you in."

Morgana, who was seated on her own smaller throne at Uther's side when Arthur came in with the so-called Lady of Shalott, had been watching Freya with silent fascination. The girl could not possibly be who Arthur thought she was, that much was certain, but Morgana did not think she saw evil intent in her wide eyes; and her fear of Uther was quite genuine.

It was curious that she was wearing one of her own dresses (of course she recognized it immediately) that had gone missing a few days before. She had naturally asked her maidservant, Gwen, why on earth she hadn't laid that one out when she requested it, only to be told that she was very sorry but it was to her understanding that it had been taken away and burned; something to do with moths. Which, of course, was perfectly ridiculous. Even Gwen herself had not sounded the least bit convinced as she told her mistress. But she hadn't been lying; Morgana knew her well enough to tell that much. Whatever idiot had taken her dress and made an excuse to her maid had only told her that much and no more. Now, though, she wondered if perhaps it was not haphazardly stolen by some castle fool, but rather given to someone who needed it more than she did.

At Uther's bidding, Morgana rose from her seat, and held out her hands to Freya. Arthur let go of her, and the poor girl stumbled forward, awkwardly extending her hand out in return.

Morgana glanced down at the girl's arm. Freya's Druid mark was not hidden to her eyes. She knew, dimly, what it meant (or, at least, what it _was_) because she had seen one on the little boy Merlin and Arthur had once helped her sneak out of the castle, young Mordred, who Uther would have executed if they hadn't intervened and taken matters into their own hands. She was very fond of Mordred; there had been a bond between them like Morgana had never felt before. She had a similar feeling now, about poor Freya, though not nearly as strong. The thought of revealing her to Uther was not pleasant; especially since she remembered the Druids had been good to her the time Uther had mistakenly thought she'd been kidnapped by them. If this girl was a Druid, frightened and homeless, while she must keep an eye on-and out for-her, she couldn't throw her head to the chopping block without cause. Uther was right, though not in the way he thought. They _did_ have something in common, something deeper and more familiar than simply both being children of Uther's dead friends, and they must be good companions to each other.

Freya thought there was friendliness and even a bit of true kinship in Morgana, but, instantly aware that (aside from Merlin) she was the only one in the room who could see her for what she really was, couldn't help looking into her face pleadingly, silently begging her to say nothing to her guardian.

Morgana looked down at the mark again, with a less stunned expression on her face this time, hoping the Druid girl understood she wasn't against her. She knew what it was to be afraid of Uther's hatred of magic and have no choice but to hide who you really were though you didn't truly want to deceive anyone.

Unsure of her meaning, Freya shook her head. She did so very sightly. The only people who noticed were Merlin and Morgana.

And also Gaius, who, having heard some commotion and din from the servants about Uther welcoming a guest and Arthur bringing back a possibly ill, or else injured, noblewoman from his hunting trip, had come to see for himself and was just appearing in the doorway.

Morgana squeezed Freya's hand reassuringly.

"Ah, Gaius!" exclaimed Uther. "You're here. Good. I will be needing your services immediately."

"How may I be of assistance, Sire?" Gaius asked, glancing at Freya and Morgana's now interlocked hands, then over at Merlin, who shrugged with an over-the-top innocence Gaius didn't believe even for a minute. The boy was up to something.

"Lady Freya from Astolat was rescued on the hunting venture by Arthur and I wish for you to examine her and make sure she is well. She appears to have been in a less than desirable state of health when Arthur found her."

"I-I was only cold," Freya blurted. She had a sudden fear that this physician would be able to see her Druid mark as well. He would not be fooled; he was like Morgana. "Sire," she remembered to add.

"Well, better safe than sorry," Uther said. "If anything is the matter, Gaius will soon have you back to your old self."

No one noticed that she looked at Merlin, who mouthed that it was all right. They were all too busy looking at Gaius.

"Sire," said Gaius slowly, "the noble family of Astolat are all dead."

"They were _presumed_ dead," Uther corrected him. "I have a letter here and a shivering nobly-born orphan trembling in front of me that proves otherwise."

"Sire," Gaius warned him, "I take it you will remember the Lady Catrina, who turned out not to be the Lady Catrina at all?"

Merlin's gaze darted nervously over to Gaius, as if he could will him to stop. That was the last thing he wanted Gaius bringing back to the king's mind. If Uther got it into his head that Freya was an imposter of the magical sort...

Uther almost laughed, swallowing back a rough chuckle as he got out, "Honestly, Gaius! I hope you're not suggesting that this harmless_ girl_, who has clearly been through more than she can bear, is a liar and a _troll_. Besides, she's not nearly of the right age to be trying to enchant me as that vile troll did."

Merlin breathed a sigh of relief. For once, he was glad Uther was so prideful and sure of himself.

"No, Sire," Gaius said. "I was just reminding you that, in the past, visitors haven't been all that they might seem."

"Just see to her, won't you, Gaius?" said Uther, already having lost interest in the conversation.

Gaius looked very hard at Merlin. _All right, who is this girl and what have you gotten yourself mixed up in _now_?_

MERLIN WASN'T SURPRISED when Gaius cornered him in his small room and demanded an explanation, but he couldn't help being upset, and even a little indignant, at his reaction.

He had hoped Gaius would understand. But he didn't. He did not understand at all. And it wasn't fair. Gaius_ knew_ how pained he had been, losing Freya to death the first time. He had been Merlin's sole comforter, since no one else could know he'd helped the Druid girl to begin with.

Arthur, for what it was worth, had tried to be a littler nicer to him, noticing his gloomy mood, but he had only attributed his servant's behavior to offense over his throwing water on him and thought they had patched things up. The prince couldn't know the truth, so Merlin had been forced to let him go on thinking there was nothing more to it. Faking smiles so often hurt the corners of his lips, but the pain was small compared to what he'd felt inside, and no one seemed to really care when they failed to reach his eyes.

But it was only Gaius who knew that the reason he had been so out of it the past couple of days was because he was mourning for his dead Druid friend. And there was much of it that Merlin hadn't told even him, special moments he'd kept to himself, folded up in back of his mind, only taken out at night when all his daily chores and tasks were done, and he rested in the dark, unable to fall asleep.

Now Freya was back and they had a chance to protect her! Why couldn't Gaius see it?

"Merlin, she can't stay here," Gaius said, shaking his head. "The girl is dangerous."

"We don't know that," argued Merlin. "She died once, Gaius, I'm not going to let it happen again."

He snorted in disbelief and aggravation. "You think you can save this girl? What happens when Uther finds out she's an imposer?"

"_When_?" Merlin's eyes widened.

"If." Gaius corrected his slip.

"You're not planning to _tell_ him...?" Merlin felt a cold panic beginning to grip him.

"Merlin, listen to reason. She's not like you. We can't protect her at the expense of others being harmed."

"Are you saying it's wrong to lie to Uther about the magical abilities of a ward in his charge?" He arched an eyebrow.

"If you're referring to Morgana," grunted Gaius, "I'll have you know I did not lie to the king about her. I simply withheld some information regarding her dreams from him."

"Not _dreams_, Gaius, premonitions. Glimpses of the future. Like _magic_."

"Morgana never killed innocent people on the streets of Camelot."

"That wasn't Freya's fault!" Merlin insisted. "Freya is just a girl. She didn't _ask_ to be cursed." He cracked open the door. "Look at her, Gaius! Does she _look _like a monster to you?"

Freya, having come with them to the physician's chambers to be examined, per Uther's orders, was sitting on a wooden table, one foot up, partly concealed under her dress, and one dangling over the edge. Gaius hadn't said so much as two words to her yet; he had pulled Merlin aside straight away.

"She's killed people, Merlin."

"So have I."

"What are you talking about? When did _you_ ever kill anyone?"

Merlin sucked his teeth. "Let's see... There was Nimueh, Sophia and Aulfric... I _caused _the death of Aredian the Witchfinder... Would a _list _be easier?"

"Those people weren't innocent, they sealed their own fates through their actions."

"And you're going to seal Freya's fate because of _my_ actions, letting Arthur bring her back here?" he challenged.

"She's a Bastet."

"We don't even know if she still is. For all we know dying could have broken the curse."

"That's another thing," Gaius added, folding his arms across his chest. "I find it very suspicious, Merlin, that you're so willing to welcoming her back without question after she's returned from the _dead_. Maybe someone is using your feelings for this girl, to-"

"No, it's nothing like that. It's definitely her."

"Merlin, please..."

"What? Be happy that you want to send her to her death _again_?"

"You were planning to run away, weren't you?" Gaius asked sternly, lowering his brow as this new comprehension dawned on him.

"What do you mean?"

"After you lied to me about helping her and then begged me to give you some time to get her out of the city... You were planning on going _with_ her, weren't you?"

"Yes," Merlin admitted.

"Why?"

"Because I care about her. Because, even though you don't think so, she _is_ like me. You told me that she and the creature that curse made her turn into were one and the same. And you know what? You were right. But that doesn't make her evil. And you're so blinded by her curse that you can't see that there's another magical person she's one and the same with." Merlin paused and swallowed hard. "Me."

"Merlin-"

"I'm telling you the same thing I told her when she asked why I helped her," he went on. "It could have been _me_ in that cage. And it could have been _me_ being handed over to Uther's men to _die_."

"Merlin, don't-"

"And you can't tell Uther. Not this time. _Please_, Gaius."

"I might not have a choice."

"Fine, then I don't have one either."

"What are you talking about?"

"If you tell Uther about Freya, I'll tell him I have magic, too." He appeared to think it over for a second. "No, better yet, I'll show his guards when they come here to take her away."

Gaius nearly lost his balance, completely stunned. "Merlin! Have you lost your mind? Your magic has to be kept a _secret_!"

"Yes, I know, I have a destiny to fulfill," Merlin sighed, rolling his eyes. "That's all I ever hear. Gaius, if you just give her a chance, I'll never complain about anything you ask me to do. I'll never be careless with my magic again. Just don't hand her over to Uther." He leaned against the wood of the door. "You won't even _talk_ to her! How do you know she doesn't have a destiny of her own?"

"Excuse me, Merlin," Gaius brushed past him and out of the room. "I have a patient to examine."

Merlin closed his eyes and listened to snippets of the conversation between Gaius and Freya.

Gaius asked if she had any family and she told him that they'd died and explained how she'd been cursed.

"And how did you come back to life? Oh, stretch out your fingers, please, I want to check your circulation. There. The right one appears to be fine. Left now."

Putting out her left hand, Freya told him what she'd overheard when the Sidhe elder wanted to make her a changeling. "I'm sorry to put you in danger, though. I didn't want to. But when Prince Arthur and Merlin found me... I didn't have a choice."

"Well, that, coming here this time, might have been out of your control, I don't blame you for that."

"I know you must hate me," Freya said softly.

"You overheard me talking to Merlin, didn't you?"

She nodded. It would have been hard _not_ to hear; they were barely four feet away, the door was open for part of the conversation, and the walls were not that thick.

"I'm sorry if what you heard upset you, but surely you can understand my concern for Camelot's well-being."

"I scare most people away," said Freya. "Merlin's the only person I've met since my family died that hasn't run screaming or tried to attack me."

Gaius put a hand on her back. "Do me a favor and take a deep breath for me."

Freya did so. Then, "I want you to know something."

He moved his hand. "Another, please."

She inhaled deeply, then let it out. "I would never let Merlin reveal his secret for me. He has a good life here. And he shouldn't lose it because of me."

Freya had a good heart, Gaius had to admit. It was a shame, all that had happened to her. She was the only case he had ever heard of Druids turning out one of their own. But while this filled him with pity, and a new understanding of Merlin's desperation to protect her, it also made him wary. Her curse had to be dangerous beyond all reason if the Druids feared her enough for that. And if she still had it...

"Gaius?" There was a soft knock at the door and Morgana's head appeared.

"Oh, Morgana, come in."

"How is Lady Freya?"

"She appears to be well enough," he told her vaguely.

"Uther wanted me to show her to her chambers when she was done here."

"You may take her now," Gaius said resignedly. "Freya, go with Morgana."

Freya hopped down from the table and, looking over her shoulder to glimpse Merlin still watching them from his doorway, left with the king's ward.

After they had gone, Merlin stepped out of his room. Standing on the steps, he looked anxiously at Gaius. "Gaius?"

"All this means, Merlin," Gaius said warningly, "is that I've decided not to tell Uther just _yet_. If I come to regret that decision in the near future, I hope you realize I'll be holding you personally responsible."

Merlin grinned and sprung down the steps, hugging him. "Thank you, Gaius!"

He patted him on the back. "There, there. She's not evil, Merlin. You're right about that much."

BECAUSE GAIUS HAD deemed her fit enough, seeing no reason she shouldn't, Freya dined with Arthur, Uther, and Morgana that evening.

"I have never seen so much fine food," said Freya to her plate.

"Camelot is famous for its banquets," Uther bragged, bringing a silver, gold-rimmed chalice of wine to his lips. "Even a humble meal is a feast here."

Morgana laughed and asked, speaking of feasts, if he had finally settled on where all the knights would be seated at the next one. There had been some hubbub over that and Uther had been going over seating charts for days, rubbing his temples and cursing lightly under his breath.

"Hardly," said Uther, popping a grape into his mouth. "There's always such a fuss made over who will sit closest to the head of the table."

"Why not just have a round table?" Freya asked quietly. She hadn't meant to be so conspicuous, speaking up so much during the meal, but this idea slipped out before she had time to think and stop herself.

"_Round _table?" Uther said.

"You know, so there _would_ be no head of the table, no special treatment," Freya explained, willing her voice not to quiver. "Everyone has to look each other in the eye... Everybody's equal."

"Everybody's equal?" Uther laughed merrily, as if at a good jest. "Fascinating idea."

Arthur, who had been rather quiet up till then, looked over at Freya with an expression of mild interest. "That doesn't sound like such a bad idea, actually."

Merlin, off to the side with the other household servants, waiting for Arthur to signal for his cup to be refilled or his plate cleared away, gazed at her. Freya really was just like a princess. Her voice, her kindness, even the respectful yet timid way she spoke to Uther. She _looked_ like one, too, sitting there with the royal family, wearing another of Morgana's dresses, this one crimson-coloured with a triangular neckline...

When he'd first seen them enter, side by side, Morgana also in red, red velvet with lacy white cuffs, he had found himself drawn to Freya's side.

"Red becomes you," he had said thoughtlessly. "Um, both." Then he'd quickly lowered his eyes and stepped back, remembering. Freya was supposed to be a high-born lady, like Morgana; he should be more coy and servant-like around her when the royal family was watching.

Freya blushed and looked at her feet.

"Thank you, Merlin," Morgana had replied, smiling.

THAT NIGHT, COVERED in a king's ransom of velvet comforters and satin sheets, Freya was lying on her back, staring up at the bed's canopy. She'd never been in such a big bed, nor had so much space all to herself. It was supposed to be a luxury, she knew, and she thought, in a way, she could see the pleasure of it, all these pretty things and a big window with a lovely view, but it also made her feel lonely. And scared. She had no idea what was going to happen when midnight struck. The Sidhe hadn't been aware of her curse until it was too late, and so she doubted anything they'd done had rid her of it.

If she turned into a Bastet, would she tear up all these sheets, break down the door, and kill someone?

And who would that someone be? A nobleman? A servant? The king himself? Whoever it was, they would quickly figure out her secret and kill her. She would pay for killing whoever accidentally got in her way with her own life.

Poor Merlin, she thought, after all he's done...

_Merlin_! That was it! It must be only a quarter to midnight at best. If she could be with him when she changed and he made sure she couldn't kill anyone...

Freya leapt out of bed and looked around for something useful. There were ties on the curtains, but binding her with those while in her Bastet form would be a joke; she could easily break them. There were some cords around the sides of her bed's canopy, but those were silken and easy for a Bastet to tear as well.

_Don't these people keep _anything_ to protect themselves in these rooms?_ Freya groped about in the dark and stumbled to the fireplace, finding a gold-plated poker. It wasn't much (it wasn't even hot from the fire), but it would have to do.

She went as quickly as she could to the chambers where she assumed Gaius (and thus Merlin as well) lived, where she'd been examined. She arrived with barely three minutes to spare.

"Merlin," she said, handing him the poker. "If something goes wrong, fight me off with that."

Gaius moaned. What was going to happen when they couldn't control the Bastet? He should have never let himself promise Merlin to give her a chance. There was potential for a blood-bath here. Merlin might have befriended the girl, but he was no match against the beast.

The clock struck twelve.

Freya let out a piercing scream and fell to all floors as the curse took over. A giant black panther with wings stood before them, mouth open, fangs glinting in the moonlight spilling in from the window, no longer screaming, but _growling_. The Bastet's wingspan upset a table and knocked down a tray of tonics and herbs. A number of glass bottles smashed on the floor.

"Merlin," Gaius said nervously, "step back slowly, don't run..."

Merlin threw the poker to the ground with a sharp _clank_ and took a step closer to the Bastet.

"What are you doing?"

"She won't hurt me." He reached out and put his hand on her head. "It's all right, Freya. You're safe. I'm right here."

The growling stopped. The Bastet still looked a little wild and blood-thirsty when regarding Gaius out of the corner of its eye, but Merlin kept it calm.

"Maybe you should go into my room," Merlin suggested. "You're making her nervous."

"_I'm_ making _her_ nervous?" he said.

But, nonetheless, Gaius slowly backed up to Merlin's room. The last thing he saw before shutting the door behind himself was Merlin sitting down and the Bastet, ever trustful of him, putting its paws down in his lap.

When the time was up and Gaius ventured forth, holding a candlestick, he found Freya, a girl again, overtly exhausted and slightly disheveled, and her nightgown in irreparable shreds, but otherwise none the worse for having been a beast, with her hands in Merlin's, their heads bowed close together.

Merlin looked up when he heard Gaius approaching. "We're both fine. I told you she wouldn't hurt me."

"You never cease to amaze me, Merlin," Gaius told him.


	3. The Dragon's Warning

~Chapter three: The Dragon's Warning~

FREYA WAS KNEELING by the fireplace round ten of the clock the next morning, warming her hands and fingers over the flames.

"Freya?" Morgana knocked, then pushed the door open a crack. "Lady Freya?"

Freya fell back, onto her bottom, and glanced up at Morgana almost nervously, as if she thought she'd been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to. She hadn't done anything wrong, actually, and of course it was probably not abnormal for a noblewoman to want to warm themselves, but this was her natural reflex. She wasn't used to being treated gently, except by Merlin. And he was definitely right about one thing: he wasn't a bit like most people. Morgana might be good to her, having magic herself and understanding, and having been good enough not to tell Uther about her Druid mark, but, even so, Freya didn't know her well enough to trust her.

"I'm sorry," said Morgana, smiling apologetically. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, it's all right," Freya said quickly, pulling herself up. "I don't know where my mind was at."

"What happened to your nightgown?" Morgana noticed it was torn to pieces, hanging in unsightly shreds.

Freya blushed and looked down at her feet. "I caught it on a nail," she lied.

It was, in a way, a lucky thing the nightgown had been about five sizes too large for Freya's small, half-starved frame. If it had been fitted to her, she wouldn't have even been able to cover herself with it properly once she'd turned back into a human; being a Bastet would have completely destroyed it. But, as it was nearly big enough to fit Freya and still have room for a _gorilla_, she had been able to keep it on, damaged quite beyond mending though it still was.

This nightgown had not been loaned to her by Morgana, but rather had been left behind in her chambers by the last guest who had occupied those quarters. That noblewoman had had rather a gaudy taste in ruffled fabric, a weakness for cream puffs and excessive helpings of venison, and, by default, an ever thickening waistline. Thus the less-than-pretty appearance of the sleeping garment even before Freya's transformation ruined it.

Indeed, it was so ugly one might have thought Freya had done the world a great service by ensuring it could never be passed down to another guest.

Morgana was not sure if she believed the Druid girl's claim. It looked, after all, as if had been torn in several different places, not just by the damage one nail could do, but she didn't press her. "Never mind, the thing was hideous anyway. I'll loan you one of mine. We're closer in size. I'm sure you'll be much more comfortable that way."

"Thank you," Freya said softly, looking into the fire.

Morgana looked at the fire herself, and wondered. "You didn't tend the fire yourself?"

Freya nodded. She had. She'd thought of trying to use magic, since no one was about, but Merlin was better with fire (she still remembered the floating candlelight trick he'd showed her), most of her own small magical talents, picked up from the Druids before being cast out, were better with wet elements, such as water or mud; it came of living by a lake, she supposed. Anyway, she'd been tending normally, without magic, to her own fires (that is, when she could risk lighting them) for years. She'd taken the poker back with her when she returned to her room, so it hadn't been difficult to manage.

"Why?"

"I was cold," was Freya's simple, honest response.

"You were cold," Morgana repeated, shaking her head. "You could have rung for the servants. It's their duty to light the fireplaces."

She had servants? Freya was dumbfounded. She knew the _castle _had servants, naturally, Merlin being one of them, but she hadn't imagined Uther meant for any of them to wait on _her_. It was one thing, at mealtimes, if they tended to everyone dining with the king, his ward, and the prince, but he surely couldn't intend for servants to drop what they were doing and light her fires for her, could he? Did he think, because he believed her to be the Lady of Shalott, she was too well-bred to light a fire when she was cold?

"Rung?" repeated Freya.

"The bell, by the side of your bed," Morgana explained. "Didn't you notice it? The tiny silver one?"

Oh, so _that_ was what it was for! Freya shrugged. "I didn't want to disturb anyone."

"You wouldn't," Morgana told her. "They're already up and running errands for the Camelot nobility. It wouldn't bother them to stop in here on their way and attend to you. It's no more than Uther expects of them, since you haven't got a maid of your own." She laughed faintly. "It's a little funny. You in here, scared to disturb the servants, and Arthur _breaking_ his serving bell every other day shouting for his."

Poor Merlin, thought Freya.

"Do you need anything?" Morgana asked next.

"I _am_ a little hungry," Freya admitted. "When do we join the king for breakfast?" She was in no hurry to have another formal meal with them, but if she kept her head down she thought she could endure it. It hadn't been _so _bad last night. And having as much as she wanted to eat was rather nice; she thought she could get used to that part of staying in Camelot as Uther's new ward.

Morgana shook her head. "We don't. Breakfast is carried in by the servants. Didn't anyone think to leave yours here for you?"

"I didn't hear anyone come in," she said. "Except for you."

"Don't worry, try ringing the bell. Perhaps they didn't realize you're awake yet." Some guests liked to sleep in late and were very cross if roused by a servant's footfalls. "If nobody answers, I'll have Gwen bring you something."

Freya walked over to where the bell was and gingerly rung it, as if she was afraid of making too much noise.

However, the bell, its purpose in mind, was designed to carry sound through the echo-filled corridors, and Merlin, on his way to Arthur's chambers, already very late bringing his breakfast to him, his head somewhat in the clouds, heard it.

Weren't Freya's guest chambers down that way? Did she need something? He decided to go see, forgetting about Arthur for the time being, not realizing he still carried the tray.

Merlin found the door already open and Morgana sitting in there with Freya, whose expression went from mildly ashamed to be ordering someone to come and bring her food to positively delighted when she saw Merlin entering.

"Ah, Merlin," said Morgana. "You can set the tray down on the table."

Tray? Merlin tore his eyes away from Freya's lovely, beaming face and looked down at what he had in his hands. Oh, look, what did you know? A tray. Of food. All right, then. He smiled and set it down on the table.

"Thank you," Freya reached over and broke off a piece of bread.

Merlin's smile widened a little, remembering the first time he'd seen her eat. Poor thing had been so hungry she had more or less crammed half of it into her mouth before saying anything. She ate more normally now, of course.

"Merlin!" bellowed an angry voice that snapped him out of his memory and made him grimace. "_Mur-lynn_!" The shouting sounded closer and Merlin knew what was coming.

"Isn't that Arthur?" Morgana asked.

Freya swallowed the bite of food in her mouth before speaking. "Why is he shouting?"

"Possibly because I just gave you his breakfast," Merlin realized.

Arthur stuck his head in the door. "Has anyone seen my useless ass of a servant?" Then he spotted him standing in the room, false-grinning guiltily. "Merlin! There you are! Where the hell is my breakfast?"

Freya quickly finished off the sausage she'd started nibbling on, in case the prince wanted what was left on his tray back.

"Good morning to you, too, Arthur," said Morgana coolly.

"Yes, hello, Morgana." He glared at Merlin. "I've been waiting hours. You are, without a doubt, the _worst _manservant I've ever had!"

"Even worse than the one who pinched your ceremonial clothing and sold them on the black market in the lower town?" Morgana asked, sounding bored.

"Well, _he_ at least brought my breakfast on time," Arthur grumbled. "So where is it, Merlin?"

"Where's what?"

"My breakfast!"

"Oh, I... See, it's a bit of a funny story, you're going to find this really..."

"He gave it to the Shalott lady," Morgana told him, gesturing over at the tray with her chin.

"_Did_ he?" Arthur smiled hospitably at Freya, as if to let her know it wasn't _her_ he was mad at, then snarled at Merlin, "Get me something else from the kitchen this instant. And, when you get back, my hunting boots need cleaning and my horse's stables need mucking out."

GAIUS APPROACHED UTHER. "Sire, may I speak with you?"

Uther, who had been looking out of a corridor window at the courtyard below, turned and acknowledged him. "Certainly, Gaius. Tell me what's on your mind."

"It's about the Lady Freya," Gaius told him.

"Please tell me you're not still foolishly thinking she's a troll," said Uther tiredly.

Gaius forced a chuckle. "No, Sire, I'm quite convinced she's nothing of the sort. But I'm afraid I come bearing some rather grievous news about her that I hope will not upset you."

"What is it?" Uther's attention returned to the conversation. He no longer looked like he was only half-listening; now he appeared truly concerned.

"Well, I didn't want to say anything until I was certain," Gaius explained, "but while Freya is, considering all she's gone through, overall in remarkably fine health, I fear she may suffer from a rare medical condition that would need immediate and routine treatment for quite some time."

"What manner of treatment?" Uther wanted to know.

"Quite simple treatment, really," he assured him. "Luckily her illness is not far out of the early stages. All she would need is a tonic taken regularly at the same time every evening. At worst, Sire, it would be a bit inconvenient timing for the poor girl, but nothing worse."

"How so?"

"Well, the tonic itself is easy to make, but it must be given to her fresh and at the same time, and in order to prepare it properly and keep regularity, which would be crucial to keeping her condition under control, she would have to come and see me a quarter to midnight. I only hope it will not disturb her rest too greatly. I just do not wish to see her fall sick with something that could be so easily prevented with my tonic."

"Certainly, Gaius," agreed Uther, nodding. "It may be inconvenient, as you've said, but I trust your medical advice. If you think that is what's best for Lady Freya, so be it. I do not think her father would be pleased that I welcomed her to Camelot only to then allow her to sicken under my roof. I'm very pleased you caught this, Gaius. Who knows what we would do without you."

After saying thus, King Uther turned and left the corridor, having some matters of state to attend to.

Gaius breathed out a sigh of relief. Thank heavens Uther bought into that nonsense. He hadn't been at all sure his fabrication would work.

Last night, after talking with Merlin, he had, somewhat reluctantly, agreed to invent a medical reason why Freya would be wandering around the castle at midnight. It would save them a lot of trouble if someone found her leaving Gaius and Merlin's quarters looking dazed and tired, or worse, _entering_ them, looking high-strung and anxious over what she knew was about to happen to her.

Merlin, having been a little disturbed that not even something so strong as death could do anything to loosen Freya's curse, had asked Gaius if there was anything they could do-if they could find some way to try and break it. Such would involve studies that could rage from things that Uther disapproved of to ones he had out-right forbidden, so there was no hard and fast answer. And it was quite possible that _nothing_ could break the curse and she was stuck as she was for the rest of her life. Yet, seeing as she could control herself around Merlin, perhaps she could learn to live with it. Merlin was the first person who had ever thought to _help_ her cope with what her curse forced her to become rather than running from it in terror or pushing her away. Maybe he was right and she did stand a chance. They could hope for a way to break the curse, but if none was forthcoming, this was what they must take on.

Gaius only hoped Merlin knew what he was doing. He was already playing a dangerous _enough _game at Camelot, having magic under Uther's roof, adding a cursed Druid girl companion to the mix... Well, what good could come of it? And, still, here he was, playing along, helping him. Oh, Merlin was entirely mad! And he himself was an old fool. But, alas, it was what it was.

A COUPLE OF weeks later, Merlin gleefully flung the curtains open, letting a soft, gray morning light spill into Arthur's chambers. "Rise and shine!"

Arthur's eyes peeked halfway open. "Merlin," he groaned crankily, "what part of 'let me sleep in tomorrow' did you not comprehend last night?"

Gesturing at the frost-speckled window, Merlin said, a little pathetically, "But it's snowing."

"Very _good_, Merlin," simpered Arthur, more awake and openly peeved now. "Figure that one out all on your own, did you?"

"I'm guessing this doesn't excite you," said Merlin, wincing sheepishly.

"That's two for two today," Arthur snapped sarcastically. "You're a genius."

"I thought _everybody_ liked snow," Merlin protested.

Arthur finally sat up in bed, glaring at him. "And what on earth gave you that idea?"

"Well, _I_ like snow."

"So, in that confused little brain of yours, everyone likes the same things you do?"

Merlin shrugged. "I'm sorry you hate snow, I was just-"

"I do not hate _snow_, Merlin," Arthur said grouchily. He liked snow fine, whenever it came, though most winters in Camelot they tended to get more cold rain and hard sleet as a general rule, but he wasn't about to jump out of bed on a day he was meant to be sleeping in just because his manservant had the mind of a ten year old child and got excited every time he saw a white flake fall from the sky. "However, I'm not too crazy about _you _right this second."

"All right, I'm going to leave now," Merlin decided, "before you do something-"

Arthur bent over and picked up a leather boot that was by the side of his bed, hurling it at the back of Merlin's retreating head.

Much to his disappointment, Merlin found himself being kept doing indoor chores most of that day. He was fairly certain Arthur was punishing him for waking him up early by giving him the most menial tasks he could think of that just_ happened_ to be in the most inward parts of the castle.

But, around early evening, just as it was starting to grow dark, Uther came in to see Arthur while Merlin was busy sharpening and polishing his swords and cleaning the silver and gold buckles on his sword-_belts_.

"Arthur, the whole courtyard is frozen over, everyone's out sledding and skating, some of the lower townspeople have opened booths to sell hot tea and biscuits..." He blinked at his son's unmoved face. "Oh, suit yourself. I'm going to take a walk and join in the fun. If you do decide to come, remember to invite Morgana and Freya." With that, he was gone, vanished from the doorway.

Merlin always thought it was strange, seeing Uther so happy and lighthearted like that; it was, best he could figure out, rather a rare mood for the king. But at least it was more pleasant and easy-going than whatever mood he was in when he hunted down Druids, burned or drowned sorcerers, and had the heads of anyone else he happened to take for enemy chopped off.

He cocked his head in Arthur's direction.

"Yes, Merlin, I see you," he said, without even glancing at him. "Don't worry, I'm going and you're coming with me."

Merlin perked up, smirking.

"Oh, don't look so pleased," Arthur snorted. "I'm only bringing you along so I have somebody to hold my drink and take snowballs to the head for me." He stood up. "Come on then."

They stopped by Morgana's chambers, where they found Morgana standing by the window and Freya, sitting in a corner, watching with polite interest while Gwen carefully mended a small tear in the sleeve of one of Morgana's velvet dresses and stitched some new embroidery round the hemline.

Freya looked up and smiled when she saw Merlin standing by Arthur's side. She had been beginning to think she wouldn't have a chance to see him at all that day until it was time for her to change into a Bastet.

"Everyone's outside enjoying the snow," Arthur announced. "Any of you ladies feel like joining us?"

Morgana shook her head. "It's too cold for me."

Freya, not taking her eyes off Merlin, said, "I'll come."

Gwen looked momentarily wistful, which Morgana caught. "You should go, too, Gwen, you've done enough today."

"Are you sure, my lady?" she asked, carefully biting off the end of the thread, sticking her needle in a pincushion, and neatly folding up the dress spread across her lap.

"Of course," Morgana said sincerely. "Go on, then. Have some fun. Goodness knows you've earned it."

"Thank you, my lady." Gwen stood and curtsied.

Merlin noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Arthur's face looked much cheerier after it registered that Gwen was coming with them.

Outside, it seemed that all of Camelot was in celebration. It seemed, perhaps, like a lot of fuss to make over a few feet of snow, but everyone was enjoying themselves, so it could not be _all_ wrong.

Freya stayed close to Arthur, simply because Merlin had to stand by him, holding his drink and working as a human shield, and it was giving her the chance to remain near him in public.

Gwen was with them at first but then went off to help a large family who lived close to her own home light a bonfire in a small space they had cleared out. It might have been a bit of a waste, seeing as there was more snow falling from the sky, putting it out fairly quickly, but she wanted to help anyway. And the orange-red flames _did_ look rather striking, for the short time they burned, against the crystal paleness of the surrounding snowbanks.

Uther noticed Freya and Arthur, taking no more note of Merlin than he would of a wooden table or sled, and came over to them carrying something in a silver, gem-encrusted canister.

"Drunk yet, Father?" Arthur teased, having noticed there was quite a bit of mead being served as well as tea.

Uther held the canister with one hand and used the other to give his son a light punch on the arm. "Look at this."

"A round box," said Arthur dryly.

Uther opened it, revealing some dark brown squares.

"Nice," said Freya, puzzled, realizing Uther was looking for her reaction. "Very dark and smooth... But what _is_ it?"

Uther laughed. "It's called chocolate. We've been getting brinks of it shipped over by some rather peculiar Spanish monks of the New Religion."

"What's it for?" Arthur wanted to know.

"It's a kind of food; made from some foreign bean, I'm told," Uther said. "You eat it."

Arthur shrugged and picked out a piece, putting it in his mouth.

"Would you like to try one?" He held it out to Freya.

She picked a piece and bit off half of it, letting it melt on her tongue. "It's good," she said, putting the rest of it in her mouth.

Curious, Merlin reached over to take a piece, too, but Uther slapped his hand away as if he were swatting at a fly. "Don't even think about it."

"May I have another piece?" Freya asked.

"Of course, child, have as much as you want." Uther let her take another.

As soon as the king's back was turned, she gave it to Merlin.

Just as Uther was leaving, possibly to go drink more mead or some cider, on account of he was starting to get some feeling back into his body and register the cold, Gwen returned.

Arthur chuckled softly when he saw her. "Guinevere..."

"What?"

"You have a smudge of soot on your chin," he told her, reaching over and gently wiping it off with his thumb.

Freya and Merlin exchanged a look of understanding at this little display. Freya giggled. Arthur's fondness for Gwen was rather precious. It was a love made, not of looks or matters of state, for a baker's son could be as handsome as Arthur, or a princess as beautiful as Guinevere, Morgana's serving girl, but they fancied each other as _people_, not mere faces.

Their admiration for one another reminded Freya a little of a story, a folktale of sorts, told among the Druids: a young, poor maiden, serving a more wealthy Druid family since her father passed on, disguised herself to attend a gathering and fell in love with a duke, who adored her, even in her humblest of rags, and finding that the slipper of his companion from the feast fit her foot, was delighted and wed her in the Druid fashion before sweeping her off to his kingdom and presenting her before his king. Of course, the formerly timeless story took place in a time when rules of Camelot and other neighboring lands were not so rigid; when Druids and servants alike had more standing, more chances.

Arthur was still gazing at Gwen when suddenly a snowball flew out of nowhere and hit Freya on the side of the arm.

She glanced over her shoulder, to see Morgana had come after all, kept warm by a large cloak of green velvet and a pair of black fur-lined gloves.

Gwen laughed, and began to make a snowball of her own. Arthur's was larger, the size of his two fists, better packed, and actually grazed the side of Morgana's shoulder, whereas Gwen's missed her entirely.

At first, Arthur pulled Merlin in front of him, and the poor warlock got a great deal of snow up his nose and in his mouth, but as he began winning and getting less snow near his face, he cast his manservant aside, throwing more snow at Morgana, teaming up with Gwen behind a makeshift fort she had constructed, taking lower-aimed hits himself.

It was then, amidst all the laughter and wildness, that Merlin grasped Freya's hand and led her away. "Come on, you've been here long enough that there's someone you should meet." As a Druid, Freya was also a creature of the Old Religion. There was somebody who she really ought to see.

He took her to the Great Dragon, chained up under Camelot.

Freya's eyes widened when she beheld the creature. She had never seen a dragon, they all, save this one, having been killed off, and she was wonder-struck. "_Beautiful_," she murmured.

Merlin had come to see him many times, to ask his advice, but never had he brought anyone with him. The Great Dragon's eyes fixed curiously on Freya. "Who is your friend, young warlock?"

"Freya," said Merlin. "A Druid."

"An _outcast_ Druid," the dragon corrected.

Freya lowered her eyes in shame.

"And currently a lady of the court, if I'm not mistaken?"

Merlin nodded.

The Great Dragon snort-chuckled. "My, my, young warlock! This is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into."

"I don't understand," said Merlin.

"Yes, but I _do_." There was something like amusement mixed with pity in the dragon's bright eyes. "I had a mate once, Merlin. And, in the Great Purge, Uther separated us forever. As he will you from yours. Better that she had stayed in the land of the dead after you took her to the lake."

Merlin's forehead crinkled. "You know about all that?"

"Merlin, you hid her under the castle," snorted the Great Dragon. "I _do_ have ears."

"If I had thought to bring her to you then," Merlin asked, "could you have saved her?"

"_Could_ I?" The dragon considered. "Yes." He stretched out his wings and jingled the chain that kept him bound. "_Would _I have? No."

"Why not?" Merlin scowled. "She's a creature of the Old Religion, same as you."

"Yes." He nodded his great, beautiful scaly head. "And that is why I would have taken pity on her and let the poor girl have a peaceful-and _lasting_-death. It would have saved you both a great deal of pain."

"I don't understand," said Merlin, again.

"I know, young warlock," he sighed, "I know. As of right now, you cannot even _begin_ to understand. You're blinded by your foolish relief and shallow happiness. But you will. Sooner than you realize." With that, he would say no more, and he flew off to another part of his prison, high above Freya and Merlin's line of vision.

"He's acting very strange today," Merlin told Freya. "He speaks in riddles a lot, which can be frustrating, but he's not usually like...well, _this_..."

"It's all right, Merlin." Freya didn't understand, either, but she felt strangely calm around this creature, massive and odd-mannered though he was. She was glad Merlin had brought her to see him. "I don't know, but I _think_... I think I trust him."

Merlin shook his head. "He only helps me because he wants to be set free."

"I don't blame him," whispered Freya. "I know what it's like, to be in chains."

"That's all over now, Freya," Merlin told her. "You will never have to worry about that again."

"Merlin, not all chains are made of iron." She reached up and touched the side of his face. "Come on, let's go back. We don't have long before they realize we've been gone."

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Arthur spotted Lady Freya walking down the corridor and pulled her aside. He had something to tell her.

"Lady Freya," he said. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"I think I may have talked my father into your round table idea."

"It was nothing," Freya stammered. "A passing thought..."

"No, it was something worth considering. It was a good idea, Lady Freya," Arthur told her truthfully. "Now, he _was_ a bit tight when I asked him last night, and I don't have anything in writing, but there is a chance, that, by the next feast, a round table for our banqueting hall will at least be under construction."

"That's wonderful," said Freya, smiling in spite of herself. Never had she imagined something she would say would have any real impact on Camelot!

The two of them did not know they were being observed by a grinning Uther and a wary, extremely overtired Gaius.

"Have you noticed, Gaius," sighed Uther happily, "that they are always together?"

"It must have slipped by me, Sire," he said, fighting back a yawn. He could hardly tell the king that it was _Merlin_, a servant boy, Freya followed about like a shadow and Arthur, his son and heir and the boy's master, only happened to be standing _next_ to him. In fact, the physician was fairly certain this was the first time he'd seen Freya and Arthur speaking alone, unaccompanied by Merlin, Gwen, or at the very least, Morgana.

"I've come to a decision that I think will make the both of them, myself, and Camelot, very happy."

"How nice, Sire," Gaius said, wishing only to stay out of it and also hoping that his guess as to what Uther meant was incorrect. "If you will excuse me, I have some medical research I cannot hold off any longer today."

"Oh, forgive me for keeping you with my prattle, Gaius," said Uther. "By all means, do what you must."

He bowed and left him.

Arthur suspected nothing, an hour after this, when he was summoned by his father.

"Arthur, there is a delicate matter I wish to discuss with you." Uther looked him straight in the eyes.

"Yes, Father?"

"It has not escaped my attention that you appear to have developed an attachment to a certain young woman here in Camelot, as of late."

"Attachment, Father?" _How _could_ he know about Guinevere?_

"Oh, don't act so coy, Arthur, I'm not a fool. I was young once, I know what the signs of it look like. You're distracted, constantly in her company, trying so hard and yet failing to hide your growing feelings..." Uther shook his head at him. "Don't you think it's time to drop the act? Instead of struggling to keep it from your own father and king?"

What Arthur couldn't understand was why Uther looked so _pleased_. He'd thought he was be _furious_ about Gwen. "You're not angry?"

"Oh, Arthur, how in the world could I possibly be angry at such an innocent display of young affection?"

"I thought you would be furious," Arthur confessed, letting out a heavy breath, unable to believe this was happening. "Because her station is so far below mine."

Uther laughed. "So _far_ below?" He raised his eyebrows. "Honestly, how did I raise such a snob? She's high enough, and she'll be a princess and, one day, queen after you wed her, so why should it matter?"

Now Arthur's confusion was complete. A _blacksmith's_ daughter was 'high enough'? _Wed_ her? If he was so welcoming of their feelings, shouldn't he give them time for a proper courtship? What _was_ his father saying? This couldn't be real; he was dreaming this. Merlin had failed to cook something correctly in his supper last night and a bad case of food poisoning was giving him wild delusions. Yes, that must be it.

Of course, when he finally realized that his father was not speaking of Guinevere at all, he found himself thinking that perhaps food poisoning would have been a more appealing alternative.

MERLIN AND ARTHUR were sitting on the steps of the castle, looking out at the courtyard. It still had some patches of snow, but most of it had been cleared away or melted on its own. One had to be careful to watch for slick icy spots still, which was why Uther was ordering the groundskeepers to put salt on the cobblestone.

Freya, Morgana, and Gwen walked along an already cleared path. Morgana was laughing about something, Freya was nodding, and Gwen was reaching over to adjust the clasp on Morgana's cloak.

"Merlin, tell me something," said Arthur, glancing over at Freya as she went by them. "Do you... Do you think her beautiful?"

Freya was wearing another of Morgana's dresses, this one a dark green. Merlin had seen it on Morgana before and never taken much note of it. Whereas it made Morgana look tall and stately, it made Freya look small and delicate, like a young fir tree, beautiful and alive, yet not high and unreachable. Then again, Merlin would have admired Freya's quiet prettiness even if she'd been wearing a potato sack.

It wasn't hard to admire her, even in public, especially since, half the time, even when Arthur caught him at it, he mistakenly thought his manservant was staring at _Morgana_ and was often too preoccupied with Gwen's inevitable presence to even bother making fun of him.

"Yes," Merlin said honestly. "Why?"

Arthur's voice was hollow, his face suddenly crestfallen. "Father wants me to marry her."


	4. The Betrothal

~Chapter four: The Betrothal~

FREYA PAID A return visit to the Great Dragon by herself. If it had been anything else, it would have been Merlin she went to first, without so much as a moment's hesitation; but, somehow, this... Now _this _was different. She was overwhelmed with emotions: horror, fear, sadness, dismay, even a little well-distilled anger mixed in there.

Too many feelings to fully list and keep account of.

Uther had summoned her to the throne room, and she had been come, alone (for Merlin was not within range at the moment, and she knew it would be thought odd if she asked for him personally to come, stopping whatever he was doing for Arthur, and escort her to the great hall), trembling again, half-sure he had found her out. She was to be beheaded, or imprisoned, or burned, without even the chance or right to beg for her life or to say goodbye to Merlin.

But such was not the case. Uther greeted her with his usual smile and seemed delighted to speak with her. He showed no signs of knowing her to be a monster or a Druid.

She relaxed, if only for a second. Then she discovered what it was he wanted, what he had in mind, and she wished he had hauled her off to the dungeons instead.

He wanted her to marry his son. He wanted her to marry Prince Arthur. And, worse, he seemed to _expect_ her to. There was not even the glimmer of a doubt in his mind that she would be pleased by this order of his. For, regardless of whatever he thought it was or called it in his own mind, it _was _an order. She had no one else of standing to fall on. Even if she_ had_ been the Lady of Shalott it would have been exceedingly difficult to refuse without causing deep offense. And as she was (a Druid impersonating a high-born lady), it was quite impossible.

Uther thought he was doing something good for her. In his mind, informing her of this before basically _forcing_ Arthur to formally propose, was an extra kindness so as not to alarm her.

Did he think, Freya wondered, that I would be so stunned and overtaken with joy that I would faint from happiness if not given proper warning ahead of time? How little he knows me. Well, how little he _can _know me! He is King Uther, after all.

How could she approach Merlin and tell him, in all seriousness, that she was as good as betrothed to his master?

Morgana didn't know anything about it yet. Freya might have been tempted to confide in her, but she didn't feel comfortable talking about being a Druid (or loving Merlin) to her. Morgana might know she wasn't who she claimed, might know from the mark on her arm what she really was, but they had made such a long show of acting as if it wasn't so. Even in private, Morgana said nothing of it. Freya felt, most of the time, like she was pretending around her as much as anyone else at Camelot.

So there was only one other person who was a creature of the Old Religion; who just might understand. Perhaps he had already known; had _foreseen_ this. He was the one Merlin had taken her to see. The Great Dragon.

Now she sat on the ledge overlooking the dragon's cave-like prison under the castle, her knees pulled close to her, pressed against her chest.

The dragon regarded her with his large, gleaming eyes. "I tried to warn you and Merlin both."

"You knew this would happen," murmured Freya, her chin vibrating lightly against her kneecap.

"Yes," said the dragon, "as did you."

"How could I...?" Then she remembered. "Oh. That's right. The Sidhe."

"You knew why they had made you the Lady of Shalott," the Great Dragon reminded her, sticking his neck out a bit farther. "You've as good as told me so yourself. They did not count on the fairy inside of you dying. Of you overcoming its power. They were too proud and it made them careless. Their interest in you may have died then, along with their kin, but not that of Uther. They knew Uther would wish Arthur to marry the daughter of his dead ally, his fallen friend, as did you. And yet, you still played into their hands, spending your time in Arthur's company. That was all the seed in Uther's mind that needed planting. Even without one of them inside you, you played into their game."

"It wasn't Arthur I wanted to be with," Freya said softly, her voice growing almost teary.

The Great Dragon lifted up his wings as if he might be shrugging. "Uther will never believe that."

"But," whimpered Freya, "I cannot marry Arthur Pendragon."

Calmly, the dragon repeated what her own common sense would already be telling her. "But you cannot ignore the law of the land and its king without grave insult. If you wish to keep up this ruse of yours..."

"Then I have to obey and marry the prince," Freya knew. "I can't refuse the king."

"But," said the Great Dragon, understanding, and switching to the other argument in her mind, "you cannot marry Arthur."

Freya nodded and reached up with the back of her wrist to wipe a tear away. "But everyone will expect me to say yes, when Uther has him ask me."

The dragon bobbed its head up and down, as if to say, yes, she'd finally gotten it.

Freya wept more freely. There was no way out. This was another curse, on top of the first one. "I can't marry him. I don't love _him_."

"I am sorry, small accursed Druid," said the Great Dragon, in a gruff, but lower, voice that was meant to be kindly. "Truly I am." His chain sounded like little silver and brass wedding bells as he flew up, away from her.

GAIUS WATCHED MERLIN staring blankly out the window, his expression distressed and distant, his chin in his hand. He hadn't even touched the food he'd put out for him at supper.

"Merlin," asked Gaius, "do you want to talk about it?"

"What is there to talk about?" he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the windowpane. "Uther is never going to back down. He never has. From _anything_."

"I'm sorry, Merlin."

"You should have told me, Gaius," he said brokenly. "Finding out from Arthur like that..."

"I didn't tell you," Gaius explained, "because I had hoped I was mistaken. Unfortunately, the Sidhe know their work too well. Their plan was nothing short of brilliant. They don't care what happens with it now, but it's still going the way they intended."

"At least she's safe," Merlin tried to comfort himself with. "This way, I mean. Uther wouldn't execute his own daughter-in-law."

"I wouldn't put it past him. I think he'd kill _Arthur_ if he turned out to have magic," Gaius said. "That's how deep his hatred runs now. It blinds him. But, yes, this would seem to ensure her continued safety. I wouldn't go around announcing that she's really a Druid after the wedding, but for a time she might be all right. Of course, who knows how long that will last?"

"Gaius, this really isn't making me feel any better," Merlin mumbled. He closed his eyes and rubbed the space between his eyebrows with his thumb, as though he had a migraine.

"It's nearly a quarter till midnight," Gaius reminded him. "She'll be here any minute."

Merlin opened his eyes and turned his head. "She's not going to marry Arthur."

"And what makes you so sure?" Gaius raised an eyebrow, surprised at his sudden conviction.

Merlin wouldn't answer.

But Gaius suddenly realized he knew what he meant. "Merlin, don't you _dare_ think of running away with her."

"I wasn't," he blurted, lying. And very poorly, at that.

"Merlin, you are absolutely the _worst _liar I've ever seen in my life." Gaius folded his arms and stared him down.

"What am I _supposed_ to do, Gaius?" Merlin protested. "Just sit back, do nothing-_say_ nothing-and deal with the fact that, as soon as Uther can put a sword's point to Arthur's back and force him say 'I do', Freya will be the wife of my master and I'll be bringing them both breakfast in bed?"

"The solution to all of your life's problems cannot be to simply run away from them!" snapped Gaius. "You're better than that."

"Gaius, please-"

"And have you thought about what will happen if you're caught?" He raised his voice. "You think Uther would be understanding? Knowing him, he'd probably get it into his head that you _kidnapped_ her and you'd find yourself in the stocks faster than you could exhale. And that's if you were _lucky_!"

"I'm not just going to stand aside and let this happen." He clenched his jaw stubbornly.

"It's not even your decision to make," Gaius pointed out. "What about Freya?"

"Are you saying you think she _wants_ to marry Arthur?"

"No, Merlin, I'm saying I don't think she would let you throw your life away like that."

"I'm not throwing it away!"

"Use your head! You _know_ what I'm saying is the truth. What happened_ last _time?"

Merlin's eyes filled with tears. Because, of course, he didn't think Freya had ever had any intention of going away with him; that was why she'd tried to leave on her own, sending him off to get supplies, leaving behind the dress he had stolen for her. And that was how she'd been killed: trying to escape on her own, so as to spare him. Gaius didn't even know all the details of this, but his words brought every last one of them back to Merlin's mind. Freya hadn't gone with him then, and she wouldn't go with him now. He knew better even than to bother asking.

"I'm sorry," said Gaius, gently, seeing the pain coming in Merlin's previously unreachable and overly-determined expression. "All I want is for you to use your head for once and keep it on your shoulders."

Merlin swallowed hard and blinked. "Don't worry, Gaius. I'm not going anywhere."

The door opened and Freya walked in. Bastet-turning time again.

Gaius left them alone, going into Merlin's room.

Before she changed, Merlin turned his back while Freya carefully removed Morgana's nightgown, slipping it over her head and hanging it over the back of a chair. Then she pulled a blanket around herself until the transformation took hold.

When it was over, and she was her human self again, exhausted, slipping the nightgown back over her body, cold now from lack of the Bastet's glossy black coat, she finally spoke to him.

In a quivering voice, barely over a whisper, she said, "You know, don't you?"

"Yes," said Merlin, a little stiffly.

"How?"

"Arthur told me."

"Merlin?"

"Yes, Freya?"

"What about Gwen? He has feelings for her."

Merlin sighed. "Yes, but she's a blacksmith's daughter."

"Merlin..."

"And you're a princess."

"I'm not."

"Soon you won't be able to say that."

Freya reached for his hand. "What about you?"

"I don't matter." Ever so sadly, he pulled his hand away from her desperate, fumbling fingers. "I'm so sorry, Freya."

"You have nothing to apologize for." She meant that, believed it with all her heart. None of this was his fault. All he had ever done was try to protect her and make her feel loved. She hoped, deep down inside him, he knew that. She closed her eyes and turned to leave.

"Freya, I-" His voice cracked.

"No, Merlin. Please don't say anything else." Freya looked back at him over her shoulder. "I don't have the strength to cry anymore."

ARTHUR WAS IN misery. A small assembly of Camelot's castle-folk had congregated in the throne room at Uther's request. Most of them already knew what was going to happen; they were there out of duty, not curiosity. But, of all their faces, there was only one that mattered to the young prince of Camelot.

And that lovely, dark face belonged to Guinevere.

He had spoken to Gwen, the day before, and asked her what she would do if he did as his father asked: if he married Lady Freya of Astolat. Her reply, so sincerely meant, had very nearly broken his heart in two. She said she would watch him grow into the king that Camelot deserved.

When he pressed her, asking if it was really so insane, what he truly wanted, not to be with Freya, but _her_, she told him flat-out that, yes, to anyone save themselves, it was. Better insane than miserable, perhaps, was his final argument. But his sweet Gwen had an answer for that, too. She did not think Freya would make him miserable. She had seen Freya, so quiet and good-tempered visiting in Morgana's chambers, maybe even a bit _too_ quiet at times, as if she were afraid the walls around her would close in and trap her... Her heart was good. If there was anything to be said for Uther's choice, even if it was not someone Arthur wanted, it was someone who would be good to him. Moreover, she would be good for Camelot.

Even Arthur couldn't refute that fact. Freya's round table idea... That really _had_ been something! She wouldn't make a bad queen, or wife.

But that didn't change the fact that he didn't _want_ her. Arthur did not love her. She was nice enough, of course. He had nothing _against_ her; he simply had no romantic feelings where she was concerned.

And, still, somehow they had both known, known beyond shadow of doubt, that this would be the outcome; for here he was now, about to ask Lady Freya for her hand in marriage.

"I would like to thank you all," Arthur began, "for being here today."

Freya tried to force a smile; the corners of her lips did finally go up, slightly, but it looked rather more akin to flinching in pain than grinning for pleasure.

No one noticed that Merlin, standing by Gaius, looked like he was relying rather hard on a nearby pillar to hold himself up, nor that his eyes were rimmed with red. Not a single person in the room suspected him of being in pain, or _cared_, if they did; he might as well have been invisible. _Freya_ would have noticed, and cared, but she couldn't bear to look at him. Besides, everyone expected her to be looking at Arthur.

Gaius knew it was hard for him, but he was busy trying to appear happy (or at least _indifferent_) for Uther's sake. The king wouldn't look twice at a serving boy who seemed discontented, but he might take note of someone as highly regarded as the court physician appearing dour.

"I'm honoured to be standing before each of you," continued Arthur, in what was only a few cracks of emotion off from being a complete monotone, "in the presence of the sole survivor of one of Camelot's dearest Allies, the House of Shalott, the Lady Freya, Lily Maid of Astolat."

In spite of her time at Camelot, it took a moment for Freya not to automatically want to look over her shoulder when someone called her that, and said it so _grandly_, with the full title. A noblewoman? Where? Oh, right, _her_. Well, sort of, anyway.

"The people of this kingdom are very dear to me." Arthur was able to smile at _that_, at least. "This place is my life. I hope one day to continue the good work of my father." He gestured over at the beaming King Uther, then turned his attention back to those he was addressing. "And to make Camelot a place of peace and happiness."

There was polite applause.

Now Arthur looked to Freya. "It is my sincerest hope that you, Lady Freya, share these dreams."

Perhaps a real noblewoman from Astolat would have, but Freya did not. These were not her dreams. A good idea every once in a while and a mild nature did not make her power-hungry for the throne of Camelot. Why on earth would she wish to be the queen?

She _did _have one dream, and no chance of it ever coming true. What she wanted was impossible. She wanted to live a simple, good life, in a little-known place, with a few fields and a couple of cows. And a lake. That dream did have a lover in it, but the embodiment of that ideal lover wasn't Arthur Pendragon. It was his manservant, the boy who had rescued her from Halig's chains and cages and made her feel loved, Merlin.

"With this in mind..." Arthur got down on one knee. "I would like to ask you to do me the honour of being my wife."

Freya's broken squeak of a 'yes' came out so quietly Arthur and then, more enthusiastically, _Uther_, had to repeat to the assembly that she had, indeed, given her consent.

Never had Merlin before longed for anything that was rightly Arthur's. He did everything for him, for the world he would bring, for Albion. There hadn't been anything that was his master's which he wanted for himself. The throne of Camelot? Nah, not really his style. He preferred scarfs to crowns and comfortable trousers to hot, velvet ceremonial robes. His father? Goodness, no! Merlin had never known his own father, for his mother had never mentioned him, and if he was half so difficult as Uther could sometimes be, he was probably all the better off for that.

Now, though, for the first time, Merlin felt what it was to be truly envious of his master.

Arthur could marry _any_ noblewoman, just about, any of which would be thrilled beyond reason at the prospect, and Uther simply _had_ to choose his special friend Freya, the Druid girl pretending to be the Lady of Shalott, for his clodpole of a son to wed.

It was horrid through and through, being nearly eaten alive by envy. From nothing more and nothing less than wanting something you knew you couldn't have. The novelty of it wore off quickly, as the feelings lingered. These feelings hurt as keenly as a bad fall from a horse did; worse, even, because they didn't go numb as easily as a bruise did and the pain came from the inside out.

Merlin was convinced that, one way or another, he'd be losing his mind before this was over and done with.


	5. Freya Pendragon

**AN: Elena, obviously, isn't a changeling in this fanfic (because then the Sidhe wouldn't have needed to try and turn Freya into one in the first chapter of the story, if they already had Elena), she's just the daughter of one of Uther's friends and a guest at Arthur's wedding who loans Freya a dress for the ceremony.**

~Chapter five: Freya Pendragon~

MERLIN ARCHED AN eyebrow at the queer-looking statue, roughly the size of the average garden gnome, propped up on the table. He cocked his head and wrinkled his nose.

"Gaius," he said, sounding confused, "_who _is this supposed to be of, again?"

Gaius, busy moving things to and fro, unearthing old wares and long untouched documents, said, offhandedly, "Oh, some woman-saint from the New Religion, I believe. Mary, Margreta, Martha, Medea... Something to that effect. I can never keep track. Now, have you seen that broom anywhere? Uther has decided that the whole castle needs a thorough spring cleaning before the wedding and I forgot I had all this old rubbish stored in here."

"It's _yours_, then?" Merlin sounded somewhere between confused and surprised. "Why would you have such a thing?"

"It isn't _mine_," huffed Gaius, moving a stack of papers from one side of the room to an only slightly neater pile on the other. "Uther is storing it in here."

"What for?" Merlin wanted to know.

Gaius sighed. "I really couldn't say."

"Gaius..."

"My _guess_, Merlin, is that it is a wedding present for Freya." He finally found the broom, hidden behind a chair currently holding up a large number of dusty old books and a pair of partially moth-eaten curtains. "Ah. There it is. I can clear some of this dust away now. What _am_ I going to do with all these books?"

"But what would Freya want with a statue of a ugly woman?" he asked. "I thought girls liked _pretty_ things."

"Come now. It's not_ that _bad," Gaius managed.

"Gaius, she looks constipated." There was no mincing with words when it came to the state of the crudely-carved image.

Gaius stopped and looked over at it. "Her tight expression _does _suggest that the poor woman hasn't used the chamberpot in a few days," he had to admit.

"And here I thought _my_ wedding present was going to be a disappointment," Merlin muttered, making another face at the statue. Its hollow eyes seemed to follow him every which way his head turned.

And Uther found the symbols of the _Old _Religion disturbing? Go figure.

"Merlin, your wedding present is a frying pan," Gaius pointed out. "One you more or less_ stole_ from me and then tied a ribbon around the handle. Even the backed-up statue is better than _that_."

"All right, so I didn't put a lot of thought into a wedding gift for the prince who has _everything_," Merlin sighed, reaching up and rubbing his temples. "There's too much on my mind."

"Merlin..."

"You know, he's marrying _Freya_, that should be good enough," he grumbled under his breath. "I shouldn't even _have _to give him anything else." He inhaled deeply. "And Freya... I don't know what to _say_ to her anymore, let alone give her."

"I know how hard this must be for you, but you can't keep obsessing like this," Gaius told him, clasping him firmly on the shoulder. "You'll only make yourself sick."

"Sick enough to miss the wedding?" Merlin snorted, a tone of semi-hopefulness undermining his sarcasm.

"Unfortunately, I think you would have to be coughing up blood before Arthur let you miss his wedding day." Gaius half-winced.

"All right, I've decided this thing is just plain eerie." Merlin was looking at the statue again.

"The House of Shalott were more religious than the royal family here at Camelot," Gaius explained. "I think the man Uther believes to be Freya's father may have had it sent to him shortly after he outlawed magic. He is probably under the impression the Lady Freya will be delighted to have something that belonged to her family, after all she's lost."

"Yes, just like he's under the impression she's delighted to marry his son," Merlin retorted peevishly, sucking his teeth and clenching his jaw.

"I can't do a thing with you in this mood," sighed Gaius, a bit impatiently. "Try taking your mind off the situation for an hour or two and go clean out that last cupboard over there." He gestured at it with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It'll save me _some _work at least."

Merlin got down on his elbows and stuck his head into the open cupboard. He found a few more books, five brass candlesticks, and, behind those, some loose wood. A partly rotted piece pulled away with his hand when he jerked it back.

In a new opening, something glimmered and twinkled ever so faintly.

Stretching, he stuck himself further into the cupboard and reached for the glittering object.

It was, he found, some kind of cup. An old-looking chalice... A fine goblet of sorts, made of polished wood and silver. Incredibly, though the wood in the cupboard that had concealed it had begun to rot, the goblet itself was completely unmarred. It had the depiction of an oak tree, and some other markings and shapes; a pattern of tiny mint-coloured leaves went around the cherry-wood-brown stem and the onyx-like bottom like tangled vines of ivy. The whole rim was of strong solid silver, perhaps well over an inch thick. It was a beautiful thing, almost _alive_, in a quiet, old, forsaken kind of way.

Merlin ducked his head and lifted out the goblet, holding it aloft.

Gaius, a shimmering bit of light cast off from the rim reflecting in his eyes, turned to see the source, perhaps expecting to see Merlin holding a hand mirror or other small, shiny object. He paled slightly when he saw what it really was, stumbling forward.

"Merlin!" he hissed. "Don't hold it up so high. Are you mad? Put that back where you found it!"

Obediently, Merlin lowered the goblet, but he didn't put it back straightaway. "What is it?" He thought suddenly of the Cup of Life, on the Isle of the Blessed, and Nimueh, the priestess he'd defeated there. "Is it of the Old Religion?"

Gaius looked both ways, though there was no one else in the room with them, before answering. "Yes and no. It does bear, as you can see, some of the old markings from the time before the Great Purge, and it comes from the Druids, but the goblet itself has little to no religious significance. No more than a wedding band."

"If it bears no religious significance," Merlin asked, "then why was it hidden?"

"You know how Uther is," Gaius reminded him. "He would never understand. That was why I had to hide it."

"It looks new," Merlin said.

"I remember when it _was_," Gaius replied softly.

"How did it keep from tarnishing or rotting?" Merlin clutched the stem and turned the goblet round in his hands. "It's perfect."

"Religious significance or not," said Gaius, smiling wistfully to himself, "there may be some small magic in it yet."

"Then it _is_ magic?"

"The cup of a friend is always magic," he answered.

Merlin looked at Gaius. "What was it for?"

Gaius chuckled softly. "It was meant for _my _wedding."

Merlin smiled at that. "_Gaius_!" he laughed. "You never told me you were married."

A little bit of the light went out of his eyes at the memory. "I _wasn't_, Merlin."

"Why? What happened?"

"Her name was Alice," Gaius told him. "Uther drew up a list of people, at the start of the Great Purge, suspected of practicing magic. It had previously been a time of experimentation. Of course Alice...and I...both of us..." He shook his head. "Anyway, her name was on it."

"What did you do?"

"The only thing I could," he said. "I struck her name off it."

"You took a great risk."

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"And you never saw her again?"

"No, not from that day to this." Gaius shrugged his shoulders sadly. "She had only enough time to escape. She could never come back here and risk everything. You see, Merlin, Alice was a healer. She had the gift for it. She needs to be able to use it, to help people and keep herself in food and clothing. It's not safe for her in Camelot as long as Uther lives."

Merlin thought of his plans to run away with Freya, before he discovered she was a Bastet, before she tried to escape on her own... "You could have gone with her." Perhaps Gaius understood his feelings better than he'd realized.

"Yes," he said, very quietly, "I could have done."

"Do you ever regret it?" he wanted to know. "Staying, I mean."

"No, actually, I don't."

"Not even a little?"

"No. I miss her, sometimes quite terribly, but I don't regret staying here in Camelot."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing," Gaius pointed out gently, "if I had gone, I would have never met _you_."

The old physician's hands were reaching out; Merlin handed him the goblet.

"And _this_," he sighed, running his fingers over it, feeling the faint grooves in the wood and tiniest of dents in the silver. "This I probably should have gotten rid of long ago. To be safe. But the Druid marriage cup is one of the few things I have to remember her by." He rubbed his thumb along the top of the rim. "I have so little of her. A book she gave me-on my birthday, if I'm not mistaken. A lock of her hair. Not much else. Uther wouldn't think so, I'm sure, but I don't believe it's asking too much to keep this goblet."

"Your old hiding place rotted," Merlin said, pathetically.

"Then I shall have to find a new one; haven't I?" Taking an old rag and wrapping it around the goblet, then tucking it away in an old leather satchel he'd unearthed amidst all the moving and cleaning, Gaius gave him a brief 'don't ask again, and don't tell' wink.

And, just like that, the subject was dropped entirely.

FREYA GINGERLY DRAGGED her fingers along the yards of gold velvet which graced the dress spread out across the bed in front of her.

"This will probably be the last dress you'll ever have to borrow from anyone again as long as you live," said Morgana, lightheartedly. She was standing to Freya's left, one hand wrapped around the nearest bedpost.

It was true; when she was a princess, consort of Prince Arthur of Camelot, she would have her own wardrobe; lots of new dresses, very like Morgana's, probably, except these would be tailored to fit _her_ personally.

Some unlucky royal dressmaker would have their hands full very soon.

She wondered if Gwen, because she was a talented seamstress, would be involved in some way in the making of her future clothing. Poor Gwen. Freya could just _imagine_ how horrid she would feel if the situation were reversed; if she were a seamstress, and Merlin a prince, and Gwen his intended bride.

The gold dress she was to wear for the handfasting ceremony (and concurrent wedding) had been a loan from a_ real_ princess, the daughter of one of Uther's guests, a Lord Godwyn. She was a kindly soul, with hair very nearly the same colour as her dress and a fondness for riding horses. Her interest in Freya was polite, but overtly mild, and her interest in Arthur was even milder. She had nothing against him, certainly did not seem to _dislike _him, but Freya strongly doubted the girl would have wanted to trade places with her, if given the chance. Princess Elena was not in love with Arthur Pendragon. That might, even, have been the _only _thing the two of them, false princess and true, had in common.

Freya forced herself to smile at Morgana's comment.

"Freya?" said Morgana, her tone a bit deeper.

"Yes?"

"Do you love Arthur?"

Freya didn't know what to say. "I... I accept that I'm to marry him."

"But do you l_ove _him?" Morgana pressed.

She wanted to shake her head no. Instead, she blinked impassively. "Why are you asking me this?"

Morgana let go of the bedpost and put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm only trying to understand why you're doing this, Freya, that's all."

Did Morgana think she was doing it for the Druids? For a people that had turned her away because she was cursed? A sort of bitter victory? Did she imagine the Druids wanted a queen on the throne of Camelot, same as the Sidhe wanted a fairy queen? Or did she realize it was only to keep up the facade and continue protecting her own skin? All this, so Uther would not suspect she wasn't truly the Lady of Shalott.

"Don't you know?" murmured Freya, her voice barely even loud enough to be called a whisper.

"I think I trust you," Morgana told her softly, almost betraying the unspoken knowledge between them of what Freya really was. Then, lighter, "Trust you to know your own heart, I mean." She looked over at the door, as if to be certain no one was coming in. "I know you are a friend to this court and will make Camelot proud, but I'm unsure of why you would want this. Are you really marrying Arthur simply to please Uther because he is your guardian? Or... Or is it something else you reach out for in this?"

Freya couldn't fathom what answer Morgana might truly be searching her face for. Only, it didn't matter. There was nothing left in her drained expression that could be read, even if she _did_ have something within worth hiding from her. She only wished Morgana would go away for a bit and perhaps speak with Gwen; _she_ needed a woman-friend's comfort right then far more than Freya did. For her part, Freya only wished to be left alone for a little while.

"Whatever the reason," Morgana said, grinning warmly now, "I'm pleased you will be continuing on as part of the family. I've felt from the moment you first came here that there was a bond between us. It's as if we both understand each other." She took one of Freya's hands and squeezed it at the wrist. "Perhaps one day you will think kindly enough of me not to feel so shy and afraid to share your feelings and motives."

Freya lifted her eyes to Morgana's face and nodded, but she said nothing further.

ARTHUR HEARD MERLIN coming into the antechamber through the door directly behind him.

"I've brought you your ceremonial sword," he said, holding it so that the hilt was cradled in the palm of one hand and the flat of the blade, lying long-ways, lifted at an upward slopping angle, rested across the other.

"Is that for me to fall on?" Arthur said dismally.

"Hopefully not," said Merlin. _Not only would you be dead and Albion never born, __my destiny lost and the world plunged into darkness, but with _my_ luck I'll be the one stuck scrubbing the blood stains off it afterward._

There was a long pause; Arthur was completely silent.

"What's wrong?" Was he having second thoughts about doing as his father wanted? Merlin almost felt ashamed at how readily he found himself hoping such was the case.

"You wouldn't understand, Merlin. You have no idea what it's like to have a destiny you can't escape."

"Destinies..." He sighed heavily and almost ground his teeth together. "...Are troublesome things." He handed Arthur the sword. "You feel trapped. Like your whole life has been planned out for you, and _you've_ got no control over anything, and sometimes you don't even know if a destiny decided is..." Here Merlin stopped and exhaled heavily, huffing in frustration. "...Really the best thing at all."

Arthur momentarily came out of his broken, self-pitying stupor and condescended to look over at his uncharacteristically wise-sounding manservant in forehead-crinkled, nose-scrunched surprise. "How come you're so knowledgeable?"

"I read a book," Merlin came up with.

"So, after reading this book of yours," Arthur asked, "what do you think? What would this book tell you? Do I marry her?"

Merlin looked down at his feet. He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Arthur he was _insane_, whatever Uther wanted; Arthur didn't love Freya, and Freya didn't love Arthur. Freya wasn't even really the Lady of Shalott! This couldn't possibly end well.

All he finally said was, "It's not really my place to say, Sire."

Arthur wasn't letting him off so easily. "I'm asking you, it's your job to answer."

Merlin looked up. "You really want to know what I think?"

He nodded quickly.

"I think _you're_ mad," he blurted, flat out. "I think you're _all _mad." Except maybe for Freya, since she hadn't really any choice. "People should marry for love, not convenience. And if Uther thinks an unhappy king makes for a stronger kingdom, then he's wrong. Because you may be destined to rule Camelot, but you have a choice..." He stopped and let that sink in for a moment. "...As to how you do it."

Arthur looked as if he were thinking about what Merlin said, but then his face, illuminated, if only for a passing moment with the faintest suggest of hope, of taking control over all this, over his own life and future, became dismal once again. "My father will never forgive me, Merlin, if I don't marry Lady Freya."

He had known for nearly his whole life that Uther would most likely one day arrange a marriage for him, he simply hadn't ever imagined it would feel like this. But, no matter what he felt, Arthur knew what would happen if he turned his back on the match now. Uther would see it as a weakness, a disappointment, in the next person who would rule Camelot. He would be critical, and brutally so.

"Of course he will," Merlin told him. "You're his son and heir. He _has_ to forgive you eventually."

"That or pull out the D-word," said Arthur.

"What D-word?"

"Disinherit."

"Ouch. That's not a good word..."

"Exactly. Camelot means everything to me; I can't give it up. I would rather give up a piece of myself for its sake than..." His voice trailed off.

"Wait, Uther can't disinherit you," Merlin realized. "You're his only son."

"He _can_ abdicate in favor of my Uncle Agravaine, if I provoke him. Aravaine lives some distance from Camelot at present, but he can be here within a week if my father decides to send for him."

"And you really think he'd do that to you?" Merlin had a hard time believing Uther, single-minded and stubborn though he was, would sacrifice a Pendragon being on the throne over Arthur not wanting to marry Freya.

Arthur's mouth tightened and he shrugged one shoulder. "I know my father well enough that I don't want to test him and find out."

The doors on the opposite side of the antechamber, the ones that opened facing the corner of the throne room, began to open, and Merlin knew what was forthcoming: the start of the handfasting ceremony, Arthur's increasingly inevitable marriage to Freya.

"Arthur, wait," tried Merlin, one last time.

"Yes, Merlin?"

"I realize this is a really inopportune time, but..." He swallowed hard, trying to keep his emotions in check.

"But what?"

"Don't marry her." Merlin stared at him imploringly. "_Please_, Arthur."

"Your concern for my happiness is..." He searched his mind for the appropriate word. "...Is_ touching_, Merlin, really, but I'll be all right. This might not be what I want, but people with duties and destines to fulfill can't always have what they want." He thought sadly of Gwen. His dear, beautiful Gwen. Gwen, who would be considered, by anyone but himself it seemed, an unsuitable bride for a prince of Camelot, simply because she was the daughter of a blacksmith and not somebody born higher above the salt. "This is how it has to be. I will be just fine, I promise." He reached out and punched him lightly on the arm. "As for right now, that door's opening and my immediate attendance is sort of required in there, so we'll have to talk later."

Later would be _too_ late. Later, it wouldn't matter, because Arthur and Freya would be husband and wife. And, once again, there was nothing Merlin could do about it.

Even if he left out the part about Freya being a Druid and a Bastet, he was sure Arthur would simply laugh at him if he claimed to feel about Lady Freya as Arthur felt for Gwen. He would say Merlin should stick to girls within his league.

On today of all days, Arthur would probably go as far as to _deny_ his feelings for Gwen, making any comparison moot. Because she was a servant. Because the doors were open now and Uther, or somebody else who would tell Uther, might hear. Because he probably couldn't bear to speak of Guinevere just as he was about to be wed to someone else. Because he was embarrassed to speak of such things in front of his idiot manservant Merlin. Because of a million different reasons.

Trumpets were blown, and Arthur stepped forward determinedly. He looked more like a man charging into his first battle, or standing over the funeral pyre of a dear friend, than he did one who was merely going to his own wedding.

Gwen curtsied, masking her pain, and Morgana lowered her head respectfully, along with the rest of the noble guests, as Arthur strode past.

Freya arrived, escorted by Uther, since there was no one else to give her away and she was currently his ward.

She felt awkward, walking in the heavy velvet dress, clinging to Uther's arm, so many people staring at her, most of whom she didn't even know. She could make out a few faces in the blur, the sea of staring nobles and their attendants. There was Morgana and Gwen... And there was Elena, in white and silver, golden hair pulled back by a diamond barrette, looking far more like a bride, Freya thought, than she herself did. Her dark hair clashed and made the dress look far more bright _yellow_ than rich gold. Not, of course, that she cared what she looked like. This was the day of her nightmares, not her dreams. What did it matter which colour she wore?

Where was Merlin? She couldn't see him, but she knew he had to be there, somewhere.

Freya finally felt Uther's arm untangle itself from hers. She was standing before Arthur. Shaking, she let him take her hands in his. None of this was right. She wasn't meant to be marrying Arthur Pendragon. She was a cursed Druid. Uther was meant to be her _enemy_, someone to avoid at all costs, not her caring guardian and soon to be father-in-law! She was no princess. This was a terrible mistake.

Geoffrey of Monmouth, the court genealogist, began to speak.

Freya didn't look at him; she kept her eyes on Arthur. The prince seemed to be the safer of the two options. She was secretly a bit afraid of this well-educated old man, on account of his occupation. If anyone could figure out that she wasn't who she claimed, it was a genealogist. Whenever their paths crossed, Freya usually skirted by him quick as a scurrying mouse. When such was not possible, she would sometimes find herself holding her breath, as if she expected the man to sense her lie in a single passing gaze.

"My lords," boomed Geoffrey. "Ladies and gentlemen of Camelot. We are gathered here today to celebrate the ancient rite of handfasting. Union of Arthur Pendragon and Lady Freya of Astolat."

Arthur's eyes strayed briefly to Gwen, though he pretended to only have been glancing at his father, Lord Godwyn, and Morgana. Freya's own eyes followed sadly. She wished it was Gwen standing there, before Geoffrey, in her place, _her_ hands in Arthur's. It would be one the happiest days of their lives, for the both of them, if only Gwen could be standing where Freya was. This, as things remained, unchangeable, this blade, this cruel eternal separating, was nothing but _wrong_.

"Is it your wish, Arthur," asked Geoffrey, "to become one with this woman?"

Arthur looked into Freya's eyes, trying (and failing) to feel something besides platonic friendship and apathy. "It is."

"Is it your wish, Freya, to become one with this man?"

"It is," she forced herself to whisper.

"Do any say nay?" called out Geoffrey.

Gwen bit her lower lip and swallowed what could have been the start of tears she didn't dare let come.

"As we gather here today, we are all witness to this rite," Geoffrey continued.

Freya's eyes finally found Merlin's. A tall nobleman had moved out of the way so as to station himself standing closer to his wife, remembering their own handfasting, nearly four decades previous, and Merlin's form, standing in the back, was revealed. Freya wished she hadn't said she wanted to become one with Arthur. It was one of the most painful lies that had ever died on her lips. There was nothing else she could have said, but she wished it all the same. The look in Merlin's eyes was unbearable. How was it that nobody else could see it? Freya thought it was going to be the death of her. In fact, truth be told, she found it hurt _worse _than death had. And yet it was invisible, apparently, to all others witnessing this heartbreaking disaster. Arthur had eyes but could not see. Not even Morgana's magic that had revealed Freya's hidden Druid mark to her could show her _this_.

SEVERAL OF THE wedding presents were stacked in a corner in Arthur's chambers, Merlin having had to carry most of these up by himself. Although he was far too drained and broken from the events of the day to have any sense of humour left, when Merlin happened to put his frying pan atop the rest of the presents, numbly, not even realizing how odd the black, common thing looked against the backdrop of a number of glittering ornaments and finery, Arthur took it as a bumbling attempt at a half-decent joke.

"From my manservant, a frying pan," he stated mockingly. "Congratulations, Merlin! You've given me something I'll never have to use." Arthur stroked his chin and pretended to think it over for a moment. "Except to hit you with, maybe. In which case, good going. I love it."

"Very funny, Sire," Merlin grumbled, as if he thought it was anything but, finishing stacking the presents and then going over to gather up a basket of Arthur's dirty clothing.

Anything, any kind of work, to keep him from looking over at Freya.

She looked frightened out of her wits, poor thing, sitting perched, in Morgana's nightgown (the borrowed golden dress already in Merlin's laundry basket), at the edge of Arthur's bed. For the look on her face, she might as well have been chained up in a slave trader's caravan.

Merlin didn't want to leave her alone, but there was only so much delaying he could do before Arthur kicked him out. "Are you sure there's nothing else you need?"

"_Yes_, Merlin," huffed Arthur, after nearly half an hour had gone by and his manservant had yet to vacate his chambers. "I'm tired. I've had a very long day and I would like you to put out the candles, leave my room, and_ let me sleep_ already." Why did Merlin have to pick _tonight_ of all times to suddenly become such an efficient servant? Goodness knew he was lazy enough the _rest _of the time!

"Merlin?" blurted Freya, anxiously.

"Yes, your Highness?" He almost choked on the words. Freya had always looked like a princess to him, ever since that first moment he saw her holding up Morgana's dress after all the trouble he'd gone through to get it for her, but her _really_ being a princess (a _married_ princess) was like cold water being dumped repeatedly over his head.

What could she say to him? 'Please don't leave me here' or 'I'm sorry I married your master; I didn't _want_ to'? She shook her head. "Never mind."

Merlin turned to go. There was nothing more he could do.

"Merlin," snapped Arthur, "aren't you forgetting something?"

He looked confused.

"The candles? The basket?"

Merlin had left the laundry basket by Arthur's wardrobe once carrying it around the room and picking up any garment that was even remotely smelly or out of place was no longer useful as a reason to linger, and he had completely forgotten to snuff out the candles.

Once he had taken care of that, he turned to leave again, and this time neither Arthur nor Freya had any reason to stop him. He knew Freya would come to see him just before midnight, Arthur having already been informed that she had to see Gaius for her tonic, so she wouldn't be stuck in Arthur's unfamiliar chambers _all _night, but it wouldn't be the same. Nothing between them ever would be again, Merlin knew.

Freya stayed on the edge of the bed and curled up in a fetal position with one arm tucked under her head in place of a pillow. The pillows in Camelot were too soft sometimes; she was still getting used to them. She bit her lower lip and swallowed a whimper when she felt a give in the mattress. A give that undoubtedly meant Arthur was coming into the bed on his own side.

She was scared he would touch her and she wouldn't be able to stop herself in time from screaming.

Instead, though, he made no attempt even to come closer to her. He kept to his own side, well away from her shaking body.

"Freya?"

"Yes?"

"Are you cold?" Her trembling was making the mattress move.

"N-no."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"There are more blankets in the wardrobe. I can get one for you if you want."

"No, thank you."

"You're scared of me," he realized, fighting back a yawn.

"No."

"Freya..."

"I'm fine," she lied.

"It's all right," Arthur told her. "I'm not coming over there, you know."

Her short moan of relief was involuntary and she couldn't hide it from him in spite of her best efforts.

"I don't want this any more than you do," he said.

Lying there in the dark, they tried to fall asleep, each feeling uncomfortable, listening to the breathing of the other.

Freya finally got up, quarter to midnight, and dashed out like a mouse running back into the familiar safety of its hole in the wall.

Arthur felt almost absurdly relieved to be alone in his bed again. It would be strange, sharing his living quarters with someone as unnervingly quiet and high-strung as Freya. It wasn't _her_ fault, poor girl, but it would take a lot of getting used to on his part. At least she wouldn't be a difficult, _nagging_ sort of wife. Perhaps Guinevere had been right when she'd told him that she didn't think Freya would make him miserable.

Perhaps_ now_ his father would finally be contented and see that he was willing to do anything it took to become the king Camelot deserved.


	6. Life After Marriage

~Chapter six: Life After Marriage~

"RISE AND SHINE." Merlin pulled the curtains open, letting the morning sunlight fill the room. He said it with less enthusiasm than usual, but he tried to make himself sound at least a little cheerful; at least _somewhat _all right.

Not that Arthur noticed. Or maybe he just didn't care; or he simply couldn't imagine Merlin had anything to be in a bad mood _about_, not like he himself did, yesterday having been his wedding to a woman he didn't even have any feelings for. He cracked an eyelid and glared. Why did Merlin have to say that every damn morning, anyway?

Freya awoke differently. Even in Camelot, she was not used to being roused gently; she _couldn't_ get used to it. If a stray dog got into the courtyard and so much as tipped a barrel over, it made her jump. She bolted upright on her side of the bed, at the sound of Merlin's voice, startled, panting as if she'd just woken from a nightmare.

She recognized Merlin first, standing there in the light pouring in from the window, the sun at his back, then remembered where she was, that she had come back here after regaining her human form when her time as a Bastet was up, and that the man in the bed with her, still lying down on the other side, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath, was Arthur Pendragon, her husband, who she'd married yesterday, and, slowly, her breathing started to return to normal.

"Good morning," Merlin said. "I didn't mean to scare you, your Highness." It still felt like strangling himself, calling Freya that, but he knew he must do what he must.

"Your face would scare _any_ girl first thing in the morning," muttered Arthur, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

"Breakfast is ready," Merlin told him, choosing to ignore that comment.

He had put out a tray on the table. There was bread, cheese, meat, water and tea, and, because he couldn't help it, couldn't resist being as good to her as he could given the circumstances, because it was all he could give Freya now, strawberries.

"Strawberries?" Arthur was surprised; he never ordered his servant to bring him _strawberries_ with his breakfast. He had nothing _against_ them, liked them fine, but it still seemed a little odd.

Freya smiled faintly, though, and that was all the thanks, all the reassurance that he had done right, that Merlin required.

"I apologize for my half-wit servant," Arthur said, taking his own seat while Merlin pulled out a chair for Freya at the table. "I'm afraid, as long as you're my wife, you'll have to get used to him, like I've been forced to."

She sat down.

Merlin immediately filled her chalice with water, having a hard time taking his eyes off her. Even first thing in the morning, after a night of so little sleep, of turning into a Bastet as she always must, she was lovely. He stepped back, in the end, completely forgetting to fill _Arthur's_ cup.

"_Merlin_!" he barked, holding up his chalice, shaking it in irritation.

"What?"

"_I_ don't have any water," he growled.

"Sorry, Sire." He came forward and absently poured water into Arthur's cup. Unfortunately, he found himself staring at Freya again, as she bit into a strawberry, and accidentally spilled about half a pitcher into his master's lap.

"Merlin! You are half-asleep today!" Arthur snapped, springing up, quite soaked, a look of deep annoyance flashing in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sire." Merlin ducked, expecting something hard to be thrown at his head at any moment.

"You _will_ be," Arthur told him through gritted teeth, "if you don't fetch me something dry to change into."

After Arthur was dry again, dressed and ready to start the day, he grabbed his sword belt and prepared to leave his chambers. Then he paused, remembering he had a wife now. What was one supposed to do-supposed to _say_-when leaving a wife? He hadn't the foggiest idea what Freya did all day; he'd never had to pay attention before. She had been around him a lot, he realized now, but he hadn't considered where she got off to when she finally disappeared. Rarely, if ever, had he thought about her when she wasn't around. What orders could he leave behind that would please her? He knew so little about her, it was difficult to say.

He looked at Merlin, still glazed-eyed and useless. Well, perhaps he could finally make himself use_ful_, for once in his life.

"Merlin, give her whatever she wants," Arthur came up with quickly, before rushing out of there. "She has the run of the place while I'm gone. Oh, and clean the floor in here while you're at it. Later, though, I'm going to need you to help me with some target practice."

On a normal day, Merlin would have grimaced at the very mention of 'target practice', seeing as he usually ended up _being_ the target. Or, at the very least, _holding_ it. But everything was so changed now; all Merlin got out of Arthur's orders was that he was to stay there and wait on Freya.

Besides, what did he care if Arthur wanted to fling daggers or arrows in his general direction? It wasn't as if he hadn't already given up something even _greater_ to his master than personal safety.

Freya, unsurprisingly, was much easier to wait on than her husband. She required very little attention. She asked Merlin to toss her a dress while she changed on the other side of the same screen Arthur always used to undress before bathing or when he had to get out of his hunting clothes and into something suitable for a state affair or banquet Uther was holding.

The dress had a line of silver buttons in the back which Freya couldn't reach; she came out from behind the screen with them still undone. If she'd been in her old guest chambers, Gwen or Morgana would have dropped in by then and have helped her, but as it was, she was quite on her own, except for Merlin.

"I'm sorry, I can't..." Her voice trailed off. She felt embarrassed, ordering him around like this. She simply couldn't lord it over him as if he were her inferior, regardless of what might naturally be expected of her. Arthur's wife or not, Freya would never be able to think of Merlin as her servant. It had been awkward enough, asking him to toss the dress up over the screen, though she knew he didn't mind. "I can't reach them," she finished feebly, pulling her thick, dark hair over one shoulder so it was out of his way.

"Here." Merlin came behind her and started with the lower buttons. "Let me help you with that."

"Thank you." She forced a laugh to hide how ashamed and uncomfortable she felt.

About halfway up, Merlin's finger slipped and lightly grazed against her bare skin. He recoiled momentarily, stepping back.

Freya trembled; a shiver, not really of _fear_, had gone through her at his light touch.

"Sorry..." He was blushing.

Freya shook her head. "It tickled was all," she lied.

"My hands are cold," he said, his tone still apologetic.

"No," she whispered. "Not at all." His finger had felt warm to the touch. Embarrassingly, she hadn't wanted him to _stop _touching her. Of course, she couldn't admit it, not now, but a flush rose to her cheeks at the thought that maybe he already knew.

He resumed his task, working on the buttons, careful to keep his hands on the fabric this time.

After that, Freya didn't really need anything, but neither did she want to leave Merlin. In spite of the new awkwardness between them, he was still the person she felt safest with, the one person who knew _all_ of her secret and didn't hate her for it. And, if she left him now, with all the other duties he'd likely be kept busy with throughout the day, she thought she might not get to see him again until midnight: Bastet time.

No, she was forgetting; she _would_ see him before that, but only just. Because, naturally, he would be in the room waiting on Arthur when she returned in the early evening, before being dismissed to his own room in the chambers he shared with Gaius.

She watched him cleaning the floor, and, feeling guilty, even offered to help before he reminded her that the last thing he needed was Arthur walking in and seeing that he'd put his bride to work. Princesses didn't get on their hands and knees and scrub floors or light fires.

Besides, he could handle it; he was used to tidying up Arthur's chambers without assistance.

Freya did her best to ignore the strange impulse she felt, when seeing him bent over like that, to crouch beside him, lift up his scarf, and lightly stroke the back of his neck the same soothing way he liked to stroke her head and neck when she was a Bastet.

But he must have known she was thinking about him, or at least felt her eyes lingering on him, for he turned his head and smiled kindly at her, once, very tenderly, the smile of a good friend, before getting on with what he was doing.

MERLIN HAD SO rarely seen Freya truly _angry_, that when she first came in quarter to midnight with that sour, wounded expression on her face, it was a look he had a very hard time placing.

She wasn't sad, or frightened... He had seen her when it was simply that much and nothing more... It definitely had to be something else...

"What's wrong, Freya?" he asked gently. "What's the matter?"

"You didn't hear what Uther did?" Freya asked, a little coldly, not because she was cross with _Merlin_, but because she was weary of hiding her true feelings about the matter behind a dumbfounded half-smile.

Gaius, putting some documents and tonics and draughts in their glass bottles he didn't want Bastet-Freya to accidentally upset, tear, or shatter into a thousand pieces if Merlin didn't get her perfectly calm right away in a safer place, turned and looked at her. "Was it the law he passed about Druid marriages?"

"What law?" asked Merlin, taken aback, having known nothing of it.

Freya swallowed at a lump in her throat that refused to go down. "All marriages preformed by a Druid priest, even if the ceremony took place before the Great Purge, are considered invalid."

Gaius understood her vexation over this matter. Her dead parents would have been married by a Druid priest; such a law would tarnish their memory, and that of any others like them. People would consider them (those few that remembered them, that is) not to have ever been married in the first place.

"Uther already hunts Druids," Freya whimpered, her anger fading now that she was speaking about it with people who understood, instead of holding it in, letting it jab at her insides repeatedly, as she had been doing for hours by that point. "He forbids their ceremonies _now_. Why does he need to have laws against their past as well?"

"Don't let's talk about it right this moment," said Gaius. "It's nearly midnight."

Freya nodded. He was right; they hadn't really the time, just then, for lengthy conversation.

"But do me a favor, won't you, Freya?"

"What?"

"Don't let it make you become bitter." He gestured over at Merlin. "The same goes for you." He reached out and patted the back of one of Freya's hands consolingly. "Uther is just a scared (sometimes far too hasty) man who has been frightened of things he feels have wronged him for too long a time to change his ways now. But he is the king, and not everything he does is evil. He has his faults and failings just like anybody else, with or without magic."

Freya remembered her first unexpected impression of him: that King Uther wasn't the tyrannical embodiment of pure wickedness and cruelty she expected. It was as Gaius said: he _was_ just a man. A man who would have killed her if he had known she was a Druid, a man blinded by his hatred of magic, and a man who had more or less _forced_ her to marry his son; but also a man who thought he was good to her, a man who loved his son and kingdom, poor way though he had of showing it; a man who could smile and have a sense of humour. Freya sometimes wondered if perhaps the two sides of Uther Pendragon weren't unlike her human self and her Bastet self. As a human, she had never wanted to hurt anyone. As a Bastet, it had been uncontrollable before she met Merlin. Maybe Uther had his own curse; not put upon him by the magic he so hated, but one he cast unwittingly upon himself. Its donging toll was not that of midnight, but of the mention of magic or Druids or anything else of the like. Maybe it took over him on the inside, where no one could see it, turning him from someone good who would cause harm only in self-defense, into a wild, blood-thirsty creature that couldn't control his hatred.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Arthur was walking down the steps of the castle, when he noticed Gwen coming across the courtyard; she was carrying a laundry basket full of Morgana's bedding and undergarments.

She stumbled when she saw him there, only a few feet away. She had been trying, fairly successfully, to avoid him since his wedding, as she didn't know what to say to him.

If Gwen had known Arthur was coming that way, she would have found some reason to delay before entering the courtyard, or else have taken another entrance into the castle. Alas, she had _thought_ she had his schedule more or less down in her mind, fairly certain of where he was most likely to be, and she'd turned out to be mistaken this time.

For, no way around it, here he was.

"Guinevere!" Arthur couldn't keep the initial excitement and delight out of his voice, the current circumstances notwithstanding.

"Sire." She bent her knees in a quick curtsy, not meeting his eyes.

"How have you been?"

"Well enough," she said shortly.

"I haven't seen you since..." His voice trailed off.

"I know, Sire," said Gwen. "I've been very busy." She lifted the basket up a bit, propping it pointedly against one hip. "You know, with this and that." She paused. "Sire."

"Where are you headed?"

"My lady Morgana's chambers, Sire." She made herself smile demurely.

"You really don't have to keep calling me 'Sire' like that," Arthur told her.

"Yes, I do." She nodded adamantly, briskly scooting past him as insistently as she could without being rude or actually using the weight of the basket to literally _shove_ him aside. "Sire."

"I'll walk with you," Arthur decided.

"No, thank you," Gwen told him. "I can manage on my own, Sire." She glanced over her shoulder at the courtyard. "Besides, I'm coming in and it looks as if you're going out."

"No, not at all," he lied. "I'm going in. To my own chambers, in fact."

"I see." She was not convinced, but she couldn't exactly contradict the (now _married_) prince of Camelot in so public a setting. Or in any setting, really. It was not her place to reprimand him. She'd forgotten, before all this wedding stuff came along, what her place, in comparison to _his_, truly was. Never again would she let herself do that. It caused too much pain. He was meant to be married to Lady (now _Princess_) Freya and to grow into a great king. Whereas, _she _was only a servant.

Arthur followed her, walking 'casually' alongside her as long as he could before she asked if they hadn't just gone by his chambers and he was forced to admit that, yes, they had, and he would see her later.

Having no choice, he walked into his chambers, holding back a sigh. If only Guinevere hadn't been a _servant_...

He found his wife, Freya, being well looked after by Merlin, who was seeing to it she had everything she needed, and carefully clearing away the breakfast dishes.

Her sleeve caught on a groove in the wood of the table and Merlin had to get it loose again so her arm wouldn't remain attached to the splinter of wood that had snagged it. In spite of his generally clumsy nature, he managed not to tear the sleeve in the process.

Arthur laughed, "Merlin, you know what I think?"

"What, Sire?"

"I think you were born to be a lady's maid," he teased mercilessly, in need of a good jibe, and Merlin, Camelot's most useless manservant, being rather the ideal (in other words, _easy_) person to pick on. "Goodness knows you're more competent taking care of her than me."


	7. Magic's Quickening

~Chapter seven: Magic's Quickening~

EVEN HOURS AFTER returning to Camelot, Merlin still felt shaken up, unable to get the images he had seen in the crystal of Neahtid out of his head. They replayed themselves over and over, and he was scared. He was scared of what the future held. The Great Dragon, free... Camelot up in flames... His own muted screams and tears... Things that might well-might even_ have_ to-come to pass. After all, he had promised the dragon he would free him, though not when.

Before all this madness began, Merlin had been starting to think he was regaining some level of control over his life. It was hard for him to hide his feelings for Freya, as he imagined it always would be, and hard also for Arthur to hide how he (deny it though now he would) still felt about Gwen, but aside from that, things had been going along peacefully. Perhaps _too_ peacefully. For, quickly, taking Merlin entirely by surprise, the peace had been, if not completely shattered yet, then at least dealt a great, cracking blow.

It had all started when Mordred and that dangerous, fanatical sorcerer Alvarr came to pay a visit to Lady Morgana with the intent of asking her to steal a magical crystal from Camelot's vaults.

Because Mordred was giving directions to Alvarr in his mind, Merlin's own magic had picked up on it, allowing him to hear them and know a little of their intent. At least, he knew they were headed for Morgana's chambers, though not very _much _more than that at the time.

Unfortunately, Morgana had hidden them, protective of Mordred and charmed by Alvarr, and Arthur had been less than thrilled with Merlin for, the way he saw it, giving him a false lead.

But, of course, that wasn't the end of it. Merlin had worried, almost unceasingly, of what was going to happen, what it all meant, them coming to Camelot like that, for he knew it could be no mere social call.

And then, one night, after her time as a Bastet was spent, Freya told him something that very nearly confirmed his growing fears and suspicions.

She had been pretending to be fast asleep, taking an afternoon nap, when Morgana, whose mind had seemed muddled and distracted, who'd been acting very strangely (Freya had noticed she was sharper tongued and much more short-tempered with Gwen than usual) as of late, ever since the visit of the Druid boy and his new sorcerer guardian, came in.

Freya, unlike everybody else, had known Merlin spoke the truth, that night, when he said the intruders were in Morgana's chambers; she'd heard their voices in her head, too.

Mordred might have been a Druid like herself, but Freya had felt strangely, from the moment she heard his voice in her head, as if she didn't quite _trust_ the boy for some reason. _Morgana_ might love him dearly, having a strong bond with him, but Freya felt nothing but a mild fear of the child. There was too much room for bitterness to grow in this confused, mistreated boy. And she was afraid Alvarr would take advantage of that.

Alvarr, she trusted even _less _than Mordred.

So she feigned slumber, occasionally peeking out from under her eyelashes, while Morgana rummaged through one of Arthur's draws and pulled out a vault key.

"Arthur trains every day at that time," Merlin had said, when Freya told him what she'd seen. "Morgana knows that."

And Freya had nodded. She was well aware of that, too. Morgana typically knew Arthur's daily whereabouts better than she, his own wife, did; she had known, beyond shadow of doubt, the prince of Camelot wouldn't be in the room when she arrived to 'borrow' that key.

Piecing it together, with some begrudging help from the disappointed, apathetic Great Dragon and advice from Gaius, they'd figured it out in the end: Morgana, stealing from the vaults and giving Alvarr the crystal, which Mordred would, with practice, likely be strong enough one day to wield and use to bring about Uther's downfall.

Merlin knew he should feel better, now that they'd retrieved the crystal and it was once again safe in the vaults, but he didn't. Those images plagued him relentlessly. More than anything, he wished he had been strong enough not to hold the crystal and look into it. What a foolish thing he'd done, glimpsing the future like that. It was moments like this when he almost hated his magic; hated _himself_, really.

His one true and effective distraction from his inward terror and self-loathing was when Freya came and changed at midnight; he was able to focus completely on keeping her calm.

When she was human again, he told her about what had happened, about Mordred getting away and saying he would never forgive or forget that he had tried to stop him, and about what he had seen in the crystal.

"Did you talk to Gaius about it?" Freya asked gently.

"Yes." He nodded. "He says it's just _one_ possible future, that nothing can know all possible futures, that the decisions I make and the actions I take can determine if any of that ever really happens." He gulped. "I'm still really scared, though."

"I know." Freya took his hand in hers and squeezed it. "It's all right."

His eyes were moist. "Thank you." Fighting back a sniffle, he leaned his head closer to hers. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he whispered.

"You would do _fine_, Merlin," Freya said softly. "You'd still have Gaius."

Their fingers intertwined. "Yes, but you're special, Freya, even though you still don't realize it. You always understand; I never have to hide anything from you."

Her head tilted slightly and he inched closer still, their lips almost touching.

"_Ahem_..." Gaius, coming out of Merlin's room, coughed pointedly.

They pulled away from each other and looked at him, embarrassed. Freya pulled her fingers out from in-between Merlin's and lightly shook off his grasp.

"It's late," Gaius said. "If your husband wakes up and finds you haven't returned, he might take it in his head to worry about you."

Arthur wouldn't worry, Freya didn't think, he'd only be too glad to have the bed to himself a while longer; but Gaius _was _right, she should be getting back. She couldn't risk lingering there any longer, not with Merlin looking at her like that.

Merlin cocked his head at Gaius, his expression laced with the faintest hint of a scowl, unable to stop himself from feeling a little frustrated. Gaius wasn't _wrong_ to interfere, of course, deep down Merlin knew that his friend was only looking out for his best interests, and perhaps Freya's too, but having Arthur brought up like that, not even by _name_, but simply as Freya's husband... Well, it chafed him the wrong way, ruffling his nerves. Mostly it was because he hated being reminded. He constantly had to keep reminding _himself_, day after day, and that was bad enough; it was more irksome still when someone_ else _said or implied it.

"He's right," Freya said, standing up and fast-walking to the door. "I have to leave."

When she was gone, Gaius gave Merlin a quick, withering look of concern.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You _know_ why, Merlin." The old physician shook his head. "Freya is Arthur's _wife_."

"Nothing's happened," he said softly, still confronted with that same unmoved, one eyebrow raised, expression from Gaius. "You do believe me, don't you?"

"It's not a matter of believing you," said Gaius. "It's a matter of what people might think, seeing the two of you being so close. You clearly have feelings for the girl, and it's not _safe_."

"You really think I would ever betray Arthur?" asked Merlin, falteringly.

"No, Merlin," he said frankly, sitting down on a stool and shuffling through some papers before getting ready to try and get some sleep, "I don't. I honestly don't." He sighed heavily. "I don't think you _would. _However, you had best work on making it less obvious that you _could_; if you wish to keep that head of yours on your shoulders. It's _opportunity_ that allows for rumours to be started."

HE BROUGHT HER flowers, the next day, taking them up to Arthur's chambers during the afternoon when he got a short respite from his duties. Merlin was worried he had made Freya uncomfortable the night before, almost kissing her like that, and wanted to apologize.

She had been sort of shy and unsteady around him, hardly even looking him in the face when he came in to wake her and Arthur and serve them breakfast. It wasn't, however, because she was ashamed of Merlin so much as she was ashamed of herself for _wanting_ to kiss him before Gaius walked in and brought them both back to their senses; for having been remembering when he'd kissed her while hiding her from Halig.

Then she saw him, looking sheepish, opening the door a crack and slowly stepping in, as if he thought she was upset with him, carrying the small bunch of dark blue, pale purple, and bright red wild flowers. They were of the kind that grew up in tall, weedy yet beautiful, stalks by lakes and ponds, the very varieties she might have seen near her own home growing up, before her family died, long before her curse began. The tears sprung up into her eyes automatically; there was nothing Freya could do to stop them. She couldn't hold them in no matter how hard she tried.

If the thought of Freya being uncomfortable made Merlin unable to think clearly, her sadness was even more overwhelming for him. Freya, he thought, had cried enough in her poor, deprived, tragic life without his adding to her pain.

"I'm sorry," Merlin blurted, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. "I only thought you might..." He noticed she hadn't taken her eyes off the flowers. "Oh, _these_? Um... These, these are for, uh, Arthur..." He tossed them aside as carelessly as he could manage.

Freya blinked back her tears, a sniffle-laugh breaking through her initial urge to sob. "For _Arthur_?"

He really was a terrible liar; his cheeks reddened and he stared down at his now empty hands.

"Merlin..."

"I'm sorry," he said again. "The last thing I want to do, Freya, is make you unhappy, in _any_ way..."

"Merlin, you _never_ make me unhappy." She took a step towards him. "Sometimes I don't think you could even if you _did _want to."

He glanced over at the discarded flowers. "Those really _were_ for you."

A smile forced its way onto her lips and into her eyes. Around him, it was hard to hold such things back, even when she felt inwardly miserable. "I thought so." She went over and picked them up, lightly fingering a tiny purple petal with a lavender hue, rubbing the side of her pinky against it. It felt as smooth as water. "Thank you."

Arthur came in an hour later, grumbling something to himself under his breath. Finally calming down, getting over whatever had irked him, he noticed Freya was preoccupied, fidgeting with some flowers in the corner of the room, sitting by the window.

Merlin was in another corner, cleaning his boots (he was back on duty again), being uncharacteristically quiet.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked.

Freya looked up, surprised. She almost always seemed surprised, for some reason, whenever he directly addressed her, as if she continued to naturally assume he was speaking to someone else until she noticed he was looking directly at her. Even when there was nobody else except for Merlin in the room, she apparently never expected Arthur to speak to, or greet, _her_ first upon entering, no matter how many times he did so.

"Making a wreath," said Freya, holding up the unfinished garland to show him.

Arthur nodded. Wreath making... Well, nothing wrong or amiss with that; at least it seemed to entertain her. He wondered where she got those flowers, though. They seemed too thin and brittle, too uncultivated, to have been from the castle's hothouse. Arthur knew _extremely_ little about flowers in general, most looked rather alike to him, but even he could tell _that_ much.

As if reading his mind, Freya said, "Merlin got them for me." Her fingers worked at entwining two long, dark and light, green stems. "They're better for making wreaths with than the big ones the other servants carry in for Morgana sometimes."

"Showing initiative," Arthur teased Merlin. "How come you never do anything for _me_ if I don't order you a thousand and one times beforehand?"

Merlin's answer came shortly, out of the corner of his mouth, as he was using a metal pick to get dirt out of a gap between the sole and heel of the boot he was cleaning. "Maybe because Princess Freya doesn't throw things at my head when I don't move quickly enough, unlike a certain dollop-head prince I could mention."

Arthur turned his attention back to his wife. "Oh, Freya, by the way, if by some off-chance my father says anything to you about wanting six grandchildren in six years, just smile and nod. Trust me, it's easier than telling him he's out of his mind. He'll come to his senses in a few days, I'm sure."

Freya dropped the garland down in her lap and blinked at her husband, mouth agape and eyebrows lowered.

The boot, pick, and brush fell from Merlin's hands and hit the floor with two clamoring booms and a_ clank_ in quick succession. He coughed and bent over to pick them back up when Arthur's head turned in his direction to see what all the noise was about.

"I'm _not_ having six children in six years," Freya blurted flatly.

"Trust me, you _don't _have to." Arthur waved it off, shuddering at the thought.

"How does he expect you to have _any_ children?" Merlin pointed out, forgetting both that he wasn't supposed to be privy to this conversation and that Uther, unlike himself, who woke them up every morning, didn't know the two of them still slept on opposite sides of the bed.

"Well, Merlin," said Arthur, rolling his eyes at his idiot servant, "when a man and a woman..."

"I know about _that_," Merlin cut him off, scrubbing the boot with enough vigor to rub a hole through the leather. "That wasn't what I meant."

Merlin knew Arthur and Freya would probably have to have at least _one _child, someday, an heir to the Pendragon's throne of Camelot, but he liked to think that that was years and years away, far in the distant future, and preferred, even _more_ so, not to think about it at _all_. Period.

_'WHEN THE FIRES of Idirsholas burn, the knights of Medhir will ride again_.' Arthur was certain it was nothing but bedtime stories and Gaius had no reason to sound so foreboding when he quoted that ancient line to his father and the rest of the court, laughing at Merlin for looking so scared as he readied the horses, but Merlin wasn't so sure. Arthur might be right (in fact, all things considered, he hoped he _was_, even if he did mean to rub it in and be a smug prat about it later), but he could just as easily be wrong. Because magic had been so largely snuffed out by his father shortly after he was born, Arthur was almost as careless about old 'superstitions' as Uther was paranoid in regards to them.

The company was preparing to ride out. Arthur had said goodbye to Morgana and Gwen, but there was no sign of Freya. Given, she was so quiet a presence in the court that most people barely even noticed her when she was standing close by, but Merlin was always on the lookout for her, _always_ aware of when she was around, and he didn't see her anywhere.

"Where's Freya?" asked Merlin.

Arthur shrugged. "How should I know?"

_Because she's your _wife_, clodpole!_ Merlin shook his head and, once Arthur was ready to go, swung himself up into the saddle.

Along the road, at the very edge of Camelot, Merlin noticed what looked like a boy with a large white pony.

He was sure the knights and Arthur saw the boy, too, (they could hardly miss him), but they didn't seem concerned. The boy-child might as well have been invisible to them. Unless he was holding a sword and standing in their way, they didn't really care.

Merlin, on the other hand, thought it odd.

The boy's clothing was too big; he might as well have been _swimming_ in that cloak. Moreover, Merlin recognized the garments. That was the same exact cloak he'd loaned to Arthur once when he had wished to go about disguised as a peasant. And those were _his_ trousers and tunic. He even thought he caught the faintest glimpse of one of his scarfs sticking out from under the cloak.

It wasn't _really_ a boy; Merlin figured this out pretty quickly. It was one of the few people who would have had access both to his own clothes and to the cloak he'd given Arthur... _And _who had been missing from the gathered members of the court who had seen them off... Not to mention had had a chance to take one of same ponies Merlin had seen countless times in the royal stables when he went in there to muck out Arthur's horses' stalls...

Freya.

She was only seeing them off, following them to the edge of Camelot, though she wasn't, being a princess now, supposed to be so far from the castle unaccompanied by guards, and Merlin had no intention of selling her out. If the others didn't notice her, he would pretend, for now, not to, either.

"Merlin, what _are _you gawking over your shoulder at?" Arthur snapped. "You're falling behind!"

"Nothing, Sire."

"Then stop being a coward and keep up with the rest of us, will you?"

Merlin gritted his teeth and dug his heels into his horse's side to make it move a little faster.

AFTER A FEW hours, it grew dark. Freya decided she would make her way back through Camelot in the morning, when it was lighter. She knew how to keep herself safe, and no one, she thought (or rather, _hoped_) would be likely to look for her. They would all assume she was in Arthur's chambers or wherever.

Besides, she couldn't go back tonight even if she truly wished to. What would happen, with Merlin away, when she turned into a Bastet? They had, as of late, been trying to practice extending her control, having Gaius, once or twice, come out and stand on the top step outside of Merlin's room while she was still in her Bastet form, but they hadn't gotten anywhere much with that yet. She didn't want to hurt anybody. Merlin would understand; she was sure he wasn't telling the knights that the boy they'd seen was Arthur's wife wearing his manservant's clothes.

She made a fire, kept an eye out for unscrupulous travelers and wild animals, though, come midnight, she knew she would be more than a match for either. She found nothing to kill, as a Bastet, except a couple of hares, though she thought one of them might have already been dead when she came upon it.

Tired but finally ready, human-Freya made her way back.

She found it easier than expected to creep, undetected, into the stables, for the guardsman in charge of looking after the valuable horses at that hour was slumped over, fast asleep. She saw to the pony, then left, creeping back up the stairs, finding only a couple of people, not particularly attentive, here and there. The only one who saw her looked tired and glaze-eyed; she was certain he hadn't recognized her. In his barely-awake state, he probably thought she was _Merlin_, on account of how she was dressed.

As she pulled shut the doors of Arthur's chambers and took off Merlin's clothing, slipping a dress over her head, she thought something was wrong. Being a Druid, she could sense there was some magic about the place. Was Camelot falling under an enchantment? Thinking of the sleeping guard, she couldn't help wondering, and being a little afraid. The last thing she needed was another curse to deal with. She was beginning to feel very alone, wishing Merlin (and Arthur) hadn't gone after all. They might be more needed _here_.

She was just finishing uncoiling her hair from its braid when the doors were flung open and Morgana appeared, wide-eyed and flustered. "Oh, thank goodness!"

"Morgana?"

"Everyone else is asleep," she whimpered, rushing over and grasping Freya's wrist. If she noticed that Freya's face was streaked with a few lines of dirt and that her dress was hanging unevenly because she'd just tossed it on without bothering to straighten it, she didn't say anything about that; she had bigger worries. "People were complaining, saying they weren't feeling well; Uther's been in bed... Then, they started falling asleep, everyone, everywhere I went..." She shuddered violently, her voice quivering. "You're the first person I've found who's still awake. I was so afraid..."

"_Everyone_ is asleep?" Freya repeated, aghast. Not just the guard and a few others after all, then.

Morgana nodded frantically. "Come look." She pulled her out into the corridor. A few servants, who must have come by after Freya slipped back into her husband's chambers, were passed out, snoring on the floor.

"What's that sound?" Freya thought she heard footsteps. Was somebody sleepwalking?

"I don't know..." Morgana, still holding onto her wrist, pulled her along. "Come on, we can hide in my chambers."

"They're coming this way," whispered Freya; the footsteps were following.

Once in Morgana's chambers, they shut the doors behind themselves, hoping they would be safe.

"I can still hear the footsteps," Freya said.

"They're getting closer." Morgana's eyes darted to the far side of the room. "Quick, behind the curtain."

They hid behind the heavy, draping velvet cloth, trying very hard to keep absolutely still. Whomever it was they'd heard in the corridor was most definitely in the room now, and it sounded as if they were looking for something, or perhaps some_one_.

Freya couldn't help it, she was afraid and beginning to feel a little tired herself; she trembled and almost dropped to her knees. Morgana, thinking she was going to faint, grasped her arm, jerking the curtain slightly.

The curtain was immediately pulled back. A chainmail-clad arm reached in and grabbed Morgana's, pulling her out.

She screamed.

Still behind the curtain, Freya yelped.

"It's _me_! Morgana, it's me," Arthur exclaimed hurriedly. "What's happened?"

"I didn't know it was you!" she cried, panting hysterically.

Freya pulled back the curtain and stepped out.

Merlin swallowed a sigh of relief when he saw her. He'd kept an eye out, on the way back, for a certain 'boy' on a pony, but he hadn't seen him. When everyone in Camelot seemed to be asleep, upon his and Arthur's return, he had begun to worry Freya was caught, perhaps at the last minute, in whatever this sleeping enchantment was, along with all the others. Yet, thankfully, here she was.

She looked scared stiff, and tired, but she was still awake; her and Morgana both.


	8. Of Poison and Dragonlords

~Chapter eight: Of Poison and Dragonlords~

MERLIN'S FINGERS WRAPPED around the bottle of hemlock. He did not want this, but there seemed to be no other way.

Behind him, Freya sat on the stool Gaius usually used, struggling to keep her eyes open. The Great Dragon had been right: what was keeping Morgana awake would not help _them_; not even Merlin himself, powerful as his magic was, was immune to the enchantment. Soon they, all save Morgana, who, according to the dragon, was the source of the enchantment, would be asleep, and Camelot would fall.

If it came to pass, his destiny would be lost; Arthur would never become king, never unite the land of Albion.

And what about Freya? Merlin wasn't sure she would be spared, Druid or not. She was Arthur's wife. What true reason would the knights of Midhir have to spare her?

But Morgana was his _friend_, whatever the Great Dragon said about her being dangerous, and he didn't _want _to kill her.

Except, he had sworn on his mother's life (because the Great Dragon, losing his patience, had declined to tell him what to do at first) that he would make good on his promise and free the dragon at last. And he couldn't do that if he was dead. He didn't make promises on his mother's life that he didn't intend to keep.

But poor Morgana! She had been so openly relieved when Merlin hadn't told Arthur about her having magic. Perhaps she didn't even _know_ she was the source of the enchantment, being as visibly frightened as anyone else would be in such a dire situation. Morgana didn't deserve to die. She was so like him, so scared of what might happen if her secret got out...

He had covered for Freya, too, hiding the fact that she had been out of Camelot when the enchantment struck, claiming Gaius had given them both (Morgana and Freya) a tonic but was then too ill to treat anybody else.

If Arthur saw that Freya could barely keep her eyes open and Morgana was still wide awake, that wouldn't bode well. They were running out of time, and fast.

They had to choose one: Morgana or Camelot.

Merlin remembered how Freya, having gone with him to see the Great Dragon, had begun to lean on his arm, exhausted, and he hadn't even fully noticed until the dragon pointed out that she was already beginning to fall under the enchantment.

She was getting sicker; her brow was soaked with perspiration, her eyes half-closed.

_Freya_, he thought to her urgently, _Freya! _Listen_ to me, you can't fall asleep. I know you're tired, (I'm tired, too), but I need you to stay awake! Arthur can't see you fall asleep now. And I need your help; I can't do this alone._

This was the first time he had really tried to use magic to speak to her in her mind, as Mordred had spoken to him, and to Alvarr. He wasn't sure if she could hear him.

He switched to speaking aloud. "Freya..." He went over to her and wiped her brow with the back of his wrist. "Freya, stay awake."

She fought back a yawn, forced her eyes open as wide as she could make them go, and nodded. "I'm awake," she murmured.

He showed her the bottle of hemlock.

Freya swallowed hard.

"She's your friend, too," he reminded her.

"I know," she panted hollowly. "I don't... But we have to... Arthur... He can't... They'll _kill_ him..."

"Are you with me?" Merlin whispered.

"Always," she choked out.

"I'm so sorry..." She shouldn't be involved in this. He should be _protecting_ her, he thought, shielding her from this inevitable act of murder he now had to commit to save Camelot.

"It's not your fault," Freya slur-reminded him. "It's not..."

He gripped her arm and shook it urgently. "_Freya_. Stay awake."

Freya was beginning to doze off again. Her ghost-pale face dripped with fresh sweat no matter how many times he gently wiped it dry with his sleeve.

"Freya..."

She tried, and felt herself failing. "Merlin... I can't keep my eyes open..." Her eyelids began to close again.

This time, Merlin wasn't sure she'd be able to force them back open. She was losing the struggle. Thoughtlessly, he inched forward, tilted his head, and put his lips on hers, kissing her.

Her eyes widened, opening again. She clearly had not been expecting him to do that. The corners of her mouth turned up automatically, in a shy smile. She wasn't asleep just _yet_...

"Come on." Merlin took her hand and helped her to her feet. "Arthur will be wondering what's taking us so long." Their excuse was that they were looking for the tonic Gaius gave Morgana and Freya, since neither of them could remember what was in it.

"Hide the hemlock..." Freya reminded him, yawning.

He did so, quickly stashing it in a satchel strapped to his shoulder. Freya was right: Arthur mustn't see the poison.

FREYA, KNEELING ON the dais floor, leaned her head against the side of Uther's throne. Her eyes were so tired; they kept wanting to close again. It didn't seem to matter how many times she reminded herself she must stay awake-for Camelot's sake, and for Merlin's.

Merlin could not do this alone; he needed her support. And Arthur... It was luckily he wasn't paying attention to her, huddled as she was by his father's throne, about to drop off at any given moment... His noticing that would have loaned extremely little credibility to Merlin's, now quite moot, cover story, Morgana still being as wide-awake as ever.

Her vision blurred, but the voices, snippets of conversation, forced their way through the walls of her increasingly heavy sleepiness.

Arthur and Merlin had barricaded the doors, but now Arthur was going out there to fight. The knights of Medhir would not spare him. Her husband was not coming back. Not unless Merlin did something, and quickly.

"If I need a servant in the next life..." Arthur jested.

"Don't ask me," Merlin retorted.

Morgana spoke next, after Arthur was on the other side of the doors. "He's not going to survive out there."

"I know," Merlin said gravely.

"We've got to _do_ something," she cried.

"I know," he said, his tone suddenly darker, though Morgana was evidently too distraught to pick up on that. Or maybe she just trusted him too much, because of how he'd been keeping her secret.

They were attending to Uther. They were trying to make some rope. Possibly Morgana still intended to try and lower Uther down into the cart, as Arthur had ordered. If that was what they were supposed to be doing, Merlin had to play along, even though he had other plans. Freya wanted to help him keep up the pretense, but she felt so weak. And she could tell poor Merlin wasn't doing so well either; the enchantment was taking a stronger hold on him, too. He could fight off the sleepiness a bit longer than she could, being more powerful, but if they could not go through with this, and she fell asleep, he would follow not very long afterward. His breath was already labored, and he and Arthur had both been worn to mere shadows with fatigue. Arthur was in no state to fight. Even completely awake, he had little chance of success against these magical knights. What was happening right outside the doors would be the slaughter of Camelot's only prince.

Freya heard Merlin open the waterskin and remove the cork from the poison. He was going to go through with it. His blurred face looked to her, briefly, and she forced herself to prop her head up momentarily and nod. Morgana would see none of this, Merlin's back to her and she herself preoccupied. It would be, up till the last minute, a secret assassination attempt kept between the two of them.

For once, Freya was _choosing_ to kill someone (even though it was Merlin who was doing most of the dirty work, so to speak), and, honestly, underneath all her overwhelming tiredness that made her feel numb and apathetic to almost everything, she knew she didn't like it any better than the forced, Bastet-instinct kind.

"Here, have some water." Merlin was holding out the waterskin to Morgana now.

"I'm not thirsty," was her curt response.

"If we get out of here, you may not get another chance to drink."

"_If_ we get out of here."

Merlin looked anxiously at Freya. Even blurred, his expression was unmistakeable. He had no idea what to do now that she had refused the water.

They couldn't _force_ her to drink it...

With great effort, Freya lifted one of her arms and in a quick, floppy motion pantomimed drinking with her hand.

Merlin arched an eyebrow, understanding. He pretended to drink some himself, then turned back to Morgana. "Here."

She shook her head. "I'm fine."

"No, have some before I finish it."

Smiling gratefully, she said, brokenly, "Thank you," and took the waterskin from him. "Wait." She glanced at Freya. "What about..."

"I drank..." she groan-mumbled wearily, "...some...already...before Merlin..."

Morgana nodded and quickly took a drink.

Merlin turned his head and wiped a tear away, knowing what was going to happen next. He had been poisoned before and knew what it felt like... How the victim thought, for a moment, they were fine, but then, gasping in disbelief, began to choke... Burning throat, crying out for air... Poor Morgana...

He turned back to look at her.

Morgana's eyes widened with horror. She realized, too late, that she had been betrayed by the one friend she thought would protect her. He hated her, too, then, for her magic... Just like everybody else would...

Her mind went to Freya next. Surely _Freya_ was not in on this cruelty; she could not hate one of her own, also with magic, one who had kept her secret faithfully, through everything...

But then it happened, almost too quickly to register: Freya's head, still pressed against the throne, turned ever so slightly so that her eyes met Merlin's. There was no shock, no stunned dismay, in her listless facial expression.

And just like that, Morgana knew they had been in on it together; Merlin _and _Freya had poisoned her.

She gasped and whimpered.

Merlin tried to pull her into his arms, blinking back tears, holding onto her while she died, but she pushed him away until her strength failed her. She would not let him hold her. Morgana had no intention of dying in the arms of one of own murderers.

The door was blasted open and Morgause ran in, snatching Morgana out of Merlin's grasp. "What has he done to you?"

"I had to," Merlin gasped out.

She examined her sister's ashen face and glared up at Merlin, horror-stricken. "You poisoned her!"

"_You_ gave me no choice." He rose to his feet.

"Tell me what you used and I can save her," said Morgause.

"First," Merlin insisted, "stop the attack."

Morgause was indignant. "You're nothing but a simple servant! You don't tell _me_ what to do."

"If you want to know what poison it is," Merlin shouted down at her, "you will undo the magic that drives the knights!"

"Tell me the poison or you'll die!"

Merlin looked over at Freya. Unable to keep awake any longer, she had finally succumb, after seeing Morgana poisoned, and fallen fast asleep. There were only two ways she would ever wake up again. One, if Morgana died and the spell was broken, or, two, Morgause did as he asked and it all stopped; the knights ceased their attack and everybody in Camelot awoke.

"Then she'll die _with_ us."

_Us?_ Morgause finally noticed Freya, the princess, asleep by the throne. Her eyes flashed with anger. This despicable servant-boy had not acted alone, then.

But Morgana was going; she hadn't the time to brood and plan her revenge against these two. She couldn't save her until she knew which poison that horrible boy and that conniving little princess had used.

Morgause pressed her forehead against that of her dying sister.

"I don't want this any more than you," Merlin told her. "But you give me no choice."

Tears filled Morgause's eyes.

"Stop the knights, and you can save her."

She muttered a long incantation under her breath, her eyes glowing.

Outside of the throne room, the knights crashed to the floor, leaving Arthur alive.

Merlin held out the bottle of hemlock for Morgause to see.

Everyone began to wake up. Freya's eyes shot open. Uther moaned and clutched his head.

Arthur rushed in, seeing Morgause's fingers reaching for the glass bottle in Merlin's hands.

"What have you done with my father?" he demanded.

"He's _safe_!" cried Merlin.

Crawling, Freya stumbled over to where Uther was sprawled, pulled herself up, then helped the king to his feet.

Arthur saw that Morgana was still in Morgause's arms. "Morgana?"

Morgause's eyes lit up again as she shouted, "Keep away from her!" Another incantation caused a miniature storm of gray smoke and relentless wind to blow through the room and, when the smoke cleared, puffing away into nothingness, there was no more Morgause _or _Morgana.

"Morgana?" Arthur said again.

But it was no use; Morgause had already spirited her away.

Uther pressed Freya close to his side as if he expected Morgause to reappear and snatch _her _away next. He loosened his grasp after one minute, then, slowly, _two_, went by and nothing happened.

"Freya, are you all right?" Arthur asked, coming over to her.

A whimper escaped her throat and pushed past her trembling lips as the memory of Morgana gasping after being poisoned (the last sound she'd heard before falling asleep) replayed itself in her mind.

"Shh..." He put an arm around her shoulders. "It's all right."

THAT NIGHT, MERLIN barely touched his food. He kept thinking about what he had to do, and his appetite greatly diminished as a result.

Already, they had lost Morgana, and that wasn't even to be the worst of it, if what he had seen in the crystal of Neahtid was any indication. His_ other _unpleasant yet now entirely unavoidable task would result in an even _worse _end, in all likelihood. He thought of trying to extract a promise from the dragon that he would not harm Camelot, but, though he was still willing to_ try_, he had some serious nagging doubts that the Great Dragon would be compliant. Enough bargains had already been struck. The dragon was getting what he wanted most: freedom. Why would he choose to limit that freedom for nothing in return?

"You're going do it?" whispered Freya, very quickly and quietly into Merlin's ear so that Gaius wouldn't overhear. "Tonight?"

Freya's time as a Bastet was over till the next midnight and soon she would be returning to Arthur's chambers, but she was trying to linger in Gaius and Merlin's living quarters for a few more minutes. She was worried about Merlin; the colour that had returned to everybody else's cheeks, even those of Uther who was utterly brokenhearted over losing Morgana, when the sleeping enchantment came undone had not come back to his. His eyes were still wide and blank with weariness, lined with black circles a raccoon would envy, and there were still beads of sweat on his forehead, dripping down his temples. And she was well aware, thanks to Gaius grumbling about how his wasting away to nothing was not going to bring Morgana back (but also, by turn, reassuring him that he had done the right thing, for none of them would be sitting there now had he not made the decision to poison her), that Merlin hadn't eaten much of anything that evening. She had the urge to nurse him back to health, to look after him as he had tried so hard to look after her after rescuing her from Halig; but, of course, no amount of nursing would change what he must do, and it was the thought of it that was causing him to make himself so sick, nothing physical that could be readily attended to with a cool cloth placed on his forehead.

"Yes," Merlin whispered back. "As soon as you leave."

"Did you steal the sword?" The Great Dragon had said they needed a sword from the knights of Medhir and that, when Merlin harnessed his own power to it, it would have the strength to break the chains Uther used to keep him prisoner.

He nodded. "Yes, it's under my bed."

"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"No, Freya, I told you," he hissed urgently, shaking his head. "If he's angry when I let him go... Stay with Arthur. You'll be safer with him tonight. He may be a dollop-head and a clodpole, but even I have to admit the man's handy with a sword."

"I'm going to miss him," mumbled Freya.

"Who?"

"The Great Dragon."

"Trust me," Merlin muttered anxiously under his breath, "if what I saw in the crystal was real, we'll still be seeing _plenty_ of him. More than we'd care to. _Much_ more, actually."

"I never even asked his name," whispered Freya, a little mournfully.

In spite of his aggravation and past (as well as future) tiffs with the Great Dragon, Merlin couldn't help feeling a little guilty for never once, in all this time, having asked it himself.

Gaius, on the other side of the room, mixing a tonic, stopped and peeked over his shoulder at them. "What are you two whispering about?"

"Nothing," said Merlin.

"Freya, shouldn't you be getting back?" Gaius breathed heavily on his reading glasses, then wiped the lenses clear with his sleeve.

"Yes." She touched Merlin's shoulder and gave it a light, supportive squeeze as she stood up and headed for the door. "I'm going now."

He sighed, watching her go.

Gaius sighed, too. "So, Merlin, I'm going to ask you again: what _were_ you whispering about just now?"

"I told you, Gaius," he said, standing up and walking up the steps to his room. "Nothing."

"What are you up to?"

"Nothing."

"Merlin...?"

"There's something I have to do," Merlin said, going into his room and coming back out with with a long object wrapped in fabric from an old cloak.

"I'm not even sure I _want_ to know," Gaius moaned, reaching up and rubbing the middle of his forehead. "You're starting to worry me, Merlin."

"Everything's fine." He headed out the door, clutching the wrapped object tightly to him as if it were a protective charm, an anchor that would keep him safely grounded when everything else in Camelot flared up under the heat of the Great Dragon's fury.

Muttering down at a book he placed, lying open, on the table in front of him, Gaius grumbled, "If the boy intends for me to die of an anxiety attack one of these days, I don't understand why he doesn't just trample me with Prince Arthur's carriage and get it over with!" Grunting to himself, he flipped to the next page. The side of the paper ripped into his skin like a blade from the force with which he flipped it. A couple drops of blood ran down his index finger. Paper cut. "Damn."

BECAUSE FREYA WAS once again afraid of what would happen when she turned into a Bastet while Merlin was away, she crept into Merlin's room and stole his clothing again, then climbed out the window. She wasn't afraid of the dragon; he had no reason to bother a Bastet, and she could flit in and out of small spaces and alleyways while she was still human, unnoticed.

She knew Merlin had no choice but to go along with Arthur into enemy territory to seek help. The Great Dragon's revenge was unlimited, his rampage even more deadly than her own when she was a Bastet. He seemed to make little distinction between commoners and nobles, innocent and guilty, setting all of Camelot ablaze. She could keep herself safe from him, since one small mouse-like girl who was also a part-time magical cursed creature did not fall under his radar, but she could not stop him. Neither, it seemed, could Merlin. It was a good thing no one except herself (and possibly Gaius, if he had guessed the truth) knew he was the one who had released the dragon in the first place.

What Camelot needed, in this dark hour, was a Dragonlord. Their talents had not been trusted by Uther, in his mind being too close to magic, so all save one was supposed to be dead.

This last one, a man called Balinor, was their only hope.

In truth, Freya secretly thought it unlikely the Dragonlord would help them, not after all Uther had done. But there was one chance, something no one save herself, Merlin, and Gaius knew. She knew it because Merlin told her, before leaving, after learning it from Gaius, and she understood why it must be kept secret. If anyone found out, Merlin would, even if he never displayed a single magical aspect, be forever viewed under the deepest of suspicions. She could readily imagine Uther finding some excuse, if not to banish him from Camelot entirely, then at least to dismiss him from the royal household, should he learn his secret.

Balinor was Merlin's father. Merlin was the son of a Dragonlord; the son of the _last_ Dragonlord. His mother, Hunith, had never mentioned him, likely to protect her son from the knowledge that could be his undoing just as readily as his having magic, but Gaius felt he ought to understand exactly who it was he was about to meet, should he and Arthur find the Dragonlord.

When not hiding out in the lower town disguised as a boy, Freya returned and sat a long and anxious vigil behind burning walls, awaiting Merlin and Arthur's return. She hoped against hope that Balinor's love for his unknown son, or at the very least loyalty to Gaius who had had a hand in protecting him, would compel him to come here and save them all. If not, it mightn't even matter, soon, if the royal family learned she was a Druid and a Bastet; for their death, and possibly her own, for the second time, when there were no more places left to hide and the dragon crossed paths with her in human form, would follow quickly enough that they wouldn't have time to condemn her to the flames. They would _all_ die by fire. They couldn't come back from the dead and burn Freya _twice_.

She had nightmares, of Merlin returning to naught but charred stones and burned rubble, waking cold and trembling, thinking also of poor, lost Morgana, who had always been the one prone to nightmares before this; wondering where she was, if she was safe, if Morgause was looking after her, being good to her...

Then, at last, when all seemed lost and Freya had, in her fear and misery, almost decided she would fly far away from Camelot when next she turned into a Bastet, Arthur's presence was announced; he and Merlin were home again.

But, Freya noted, when she saw them, how grave and beaten-down they looked, they were alone. Balinor was not with them.

At first, she thought he had merely refused them, sending them back empty-handed, but it was more serious even than that. Balinor had intended to help them, to come back and stop the Great Dragon's attack on Camelot, but had died along the way. There had been an attack, which only Merlin and Arthur survived.

When Arthur and his father went into private counsel, Merlin was dismissed and found himself, after a bit, alone with Freya.

In front of everyone else, he had had to pretend Balinor's death was no greater a tragedy to him than to the rest of Camelot; even in front of Arthur, he'd had to swallow back tears. Arthur had seen him cry, telling him no man was worth his tears, trying to be kind, actually, but unable to understand.

Now, at last, he was with someone who would let him fall apart. Tears streamed down his face and he wept openly.

"I'm so sorry about your father, Merlin." Freya put her arms around him as he sank to his knees. She let herself be pulled down with him, into a chair, letting him put his head in her lap.

"He died saving me," he wept.

"He loved you," Freya said consolingly. That much, she was certain of. "Even though he only met you that once, he loved you. He wouldn't have agreed to come back if he didn't."

"He would be _alive_ now, if he didn't," Merlin sniffled.

Freya stroked his hair. "Shh..."

"Kilgharrah," he murmured.

"What?"

"That's the Great Dragon's name," Merlin said softly. "He told me."

"Call him by it," said Freya. "Maybe then he'll listen to you."

"What if he doesn't?" asked Merlin, his voice timid. "What if I can't stop him? What if I'm no Dragonlord? Not like my father was."

"I think you are," Freya told him. "And I think Kilgharrah knows it; his anger simply blinds him."

"I'm going to ride out with Arthur," Merlin felt the need to explain. "He thinks he's going to kill the dragon or die trying, but..."

"But you intend to speak to Kilgharrah and make him listen," Freya knew.

He lifted his head from her lap and nodded. "If I can."

"You can. You're as good as kin to the dragon."

"Will you be looking for me and Arthur, if we return?"

"No."

"No?" He blinked at her in confusion.

"Not_ if_," she said firmly. "I will be looking for you _when_ you return." If there was any sliver of doubt in Freya's heart, she would not allow him to see it. It was not doubt Merlin needed right then; it was strength. Usually he had to be strong for himself and for everyone else in Camelot, but, for once, she wanted to help him hold up a corner of that burden.

And that was why she did not allow her anxiety, as she watched Arthur, Merlin, and a disturbingly small and hopeless company of overly-brave knights ride out. She stared out the window, smiling as long as her face was visible. Only when they were out of sight did she allow her face to contort into an open expression of nervousness, biting onto her lower lip as her smile faded.

Their successful return occurred a half hour before midnight.

Not ten minutes after this return, Merlin was sitting alone with Gaius in their quarters, smirking sort of happily to himself when he reported that Arthur had dealt the dragon a mortal blow.

"And I'm sure the Great Dragon's sudden disappearance," said Gaius, chuckling, "and lack of a corpse left behind for Arthur to bring back as a trophy to Uther, had nothing to do with you being the last Dragonlord."

Merlin shook his head insincerely, an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. "Nope, not a thing."

Later, round midnight, when Gaius dared, as he sometimes did, to step out of Merlin's room and back into his main quarters, he thought he heard a strange rumbling noise.

The Bastet was even calmer than usual this evening. He thought, almost... Though it couldn't be... "Merlin, is that creature _purring_?"

Smiling distantly to himself, Merlin shrugged and lovingly stroked the Bastet's soft, velvety black ears.

Gaius exhaled in amazed incredulity. So much for a wild, blood-thirsty beast... "I don't _believe _it!"


	9. Mostly Concerning The Finding of Morgana

~Chapter nine: Mostly Concerning The Finding of Morgana~

THEY HAD A near-perfect summer; the only blight upon it being that Morgana was never found.

Uther sent out his best scouts, then his best guards, then a handful of his best knights, but they all returned with nothing to show for their ventures. There was not the breath of a word about Lady Morgana anywhere, nor any sighting of her. Nobody anywhere had heard anything. The announcement of grand rewards on Uther's part resulted only in a few shady characters leaving false information; one of these being tracked down and beheaded for his treasonous lies, the others getting away with their ill-got monies.

At first, Arthur, like Uther, was deeply saddened by the loss of Morgana, but as the summer progressed, he seemed able to do what his father could not: forget her. It was as if she had died, and it left him with an empty place in his heart for the girl he had known since childhood, but the sun still rose and the rain still fell on Camelot, and there always something that needed doing so that he could not obsess over the loss of his father's ward.

Uther, however, was exactly the opposite; for some reason, all his kingly duties only made him worry and fuss about Morgana's being gone _more_, not less. Gaius frequently worried about what the king's constant anxiety was doing to his health, but Uther never took any of the physician's warnings to heart.

It was as if the king's heart was too broken to care if it stopped beating.

Merlin and Freya kept their guilty secret but rarely spoke of it, even when they happened to be alone. Because she had vanished so soon after their poisoning her, it was almost as if they had succeeded in killing her; and that was not a pleasant subject. Instead, they talked of Kilgharrah, and of perhaps summoning him if ever there was a need. Merlin confessed that he wasn't sure he would answer; Freya never had any doubts, and told him so.

A dragon, she pointed out, could not ignore the call of a Dragonlord even if it wanted to. Not to mention, he had spared Kilgharrah's life on the condition that he would never attack Camelot again. Any dragon with a sense of gratitude would see sense and come to his aid.

Because the weather soon grew too hot in the day but cool and fine in the night and earliest morning hours, after Freya's time as a Bastet was spent, she and Merlin took to taking a walk for an hour or so, alone in the cover of darkness, before she returned to Arthur's chambers.

Gaius vehemently protested to these from the first, though it took far more times than just the one for him to get it into the foolish young warlock's thick head. In exasperation, he told Merlin that Freya ought to be back in Arthur's chambers, where she _belonged_, as soon as possible, not out strolling, gadding about the woods with her husband's manservant. What would people say if they were seen together? What explanation could they possibly have for wandering the forest hand-in-hand, whispering, and sometimes _giggling_ to themselves like two little children who've discovered a soul mate?

Merlin had blinked at him, when he said that last bit, suddenly realizing what it meant.

It meant Gaius knew everything; they had no secrets from him. He had probably followed them. And that meant others could, too. The refreshing, encompassing darkness of a summer's night was not an invisibility cloak; if Gaius could see them, it was only a matter of time before others could (and surely _would_) as well.

They were quite saddened over this, especially Freya, who was often cooped up inside the castle walls while Merlin was permitted out to accompany Arthur on a ride or hunting trip. It mattered only the first dozen times or so to her that Merlin did not particularly _enjoy_ going with him; she didn't imagine _she_ would enjoy it either, really, she simply longed for a breath of fresh air that was gotten somewhere other than the courtyard where everyone's staring eyes from the windows were on her. And her husband would not consent to take her with him much of anywhere. Once or twice, he did, and she spent most of the time, as far as she could get away with it, talking to Merlin as he rode alongside them; but, most times, he said that wherever he was going was no place for a princess.

As the summer drew to an end, Freya began to feel restless. Uther's temper was becoming more unreliable. One never knew when he would flare up and throw a tray at his attendants or when he would, suddenly and without the slightest warning or provocation, burst into tears. She saw less and less of Merlin, for as it became more apparent that Morgana wasn't returning, somehow or other Gwen had slowly been reassigned to look after the princess. And although Freya was fond of Gwen, she didn't like her waiting on her; she grew lonely for Merlin's voice, prattling on about something, on the other side of the screen while she changed, in place of Gwen's occasional quiet humming peppered with polite inquires of, "Anything else, your Highness?" Gwen was a good lady-in-waiting to her, but she could not be as thorough as Merlin; she did not _dote_, or (every once in a while) use magic to do some unexpected small trick to make her smile on cloudy mornings when she woke feeling a bit low.

She still _saw_ Merlin, of course. And not only at midnight, either. Whenever Arthur was around, he was usually the one waiting on them, and naturally he was still the one who pulled open the curtains and woke them every morning and brought them their breakfast. But, regardless, the cutback in their time together was keenly felt on both sides.

This cutback only increased dramatically when autumn came and Uther announced that he wanted Arthur to lead the remainder of the best knights of Camelot out to look for Morgana. He was sick of waiting for news that never came; he was worn to a shadow and wanted his beloved, kidnapped charge back home _now_.

"You have to go," Freya said quietly the night before Merlin was due to ride out with Arthur in the search for Morgana.

"Yes," he sighed.

Freya took his hand. "And I don't want you to." She didn't know how long they would be out; if they'd ever return to Camelot again after this hopeless mission.

"Don't be afraid," said Merlin. "I will come back."

"What if Morgause doesn't want Morgana to be found?" she worried aloud. "You and Arthur could walk straight into a trap. Or search for a thousand years and never find a trace of her."

"Such odds," Gaius put in, coming over, pulling out a stool, and sitting down next to them, "won't mean much to Uther. The king is entirely single-minded in this."

"Uther claims to have seen what magic can do," Freya said, "but if he believes it can be out-witted... That Morgause could fail in using it to conceal his ward..." She shook her head. "He has seen _nothing_."

Merlin smiled. "Even so, hopeless as it may be, I have to go. _Somebody _has to look after Arthur, make sure he doesn't get himself killed."

Freya and Gaius both chuckled lightly, knowing, as no one except the three of them could, how true Merlin's words were. Everybody else might think him nothing but a bumbling idiot of a servant, but they knew the truth.

"Take care of yourself, too," pleaded Freya, tilting her head so that she was looking directly into Merlin's eyes. "_Promise_ me."

"I promise," he swore. Gently nudging her arm, he added, "I've got a destiny to fulfill, remember? Might be just a _bit _hard to do that if I, and the king meant to unite the land of Albion, get lost running this little errand for Uther. So I am _definitely_ coming back."

"All right, then." Freya smiled at him. "Go." She let go of his hand and, reaching up, touched the side of his face, pressing her palm against his cheek, her touch light as a trigger-fish. "As long as you promise."

THROUGHOUT THE YEAR they spent away from Camelot looking for Morgana, Merlin wrote Freya one letter a day.

Of course, he couldn't always _send_ these letters, for more often than not they would be in some perilous place where it was not safe for their presence to be made known, especially by not by means of a tangible Camelot-seal paper-trail, or else some rural, primitive, forest-set camp where (for the menservants and knights' pages, anyway) things were narrowed down to the bare minimum of necessity, yet he wrote them regardless.

When he did send them, he naturally addressed them to Gaius, usually along with a real letter for his friend the physician wrapped up in the small Camelot-bound bundles as well.

Gaius, much as he wished to discourage the growingly intense bond between Freya and Merlin, always made sure the letters reached their intended reader.

They were not 'love letters' in the typical sense of the term; Merlin did not write about loving her, but wrote instead as one would write to a dear friend, telling everything he was doing and experiencing, what he thought about and missed, and even his fears over what would happen if by some incredible act of serendipity they _did_ find Morgana, now and after all this time. Still, the deeper meaning was there, an untouchable wraith hidden behind each deceptively simple word. It was good no one save Freya (and Gaius, who could be a bit nosy in a protective manner, meaning only to be sure nothing truly improper was being conveyed back and forth in these inherently risky exchanges) ever read Merlin's letters to the princess of Camelot. Any idiot would have seen, even where no love was stated directly, that the writer hopelessly adored and longed for the the lady he was addressing in them.

Freya would read a single letter, from a bundle of several, over and over again, concealed by a book from the castle's library she feigned utter and unbreakable fascination with.

She worried for Merlin's safety often, and pitied him when his letters spoke of crawling through deep mud or, worse, finding a company of their own knights slain because they had been spotted creeping uninvited into enemy territory. He hated seeing all the death, the ever-rising count of corpses.

It was a bad as a war, Merlin thought, although Arthur told him he was an idiot and that a full-blown war was much more dire and to shut up, whenever he spoke this sentiment aloud.

His letters mentioned also weeks of rain, of being trapped in tents and, on slightly better days, in full-sized pavilions.

One evening they'd come to a lake, pleased at first, thinking of fresh fish and filled waterskins, displeased when they saw the reality. The weather was bad, the storms whipping up the highest of waves, driving them back and holding off most chances of safely fishing.

_I see the waves crashing, so high I think they're going to come as far out as we are and wash our camp away, and I find myself thinking of you_, Merlin had written, huddled on the outer edge of one of the tent's corners, drizzle and mist filling each breath of air he took while struggling to keep his tired eyes open and scratch out a few more words before calling it a night, knowing Arthur would have him up at the crack of dawn, or earlier._ I wonder if this is anything like the place you told me about; the place where you grew up with your family. I like to think it must be. I like to think that, in the summer, this place is as your home was: wild flowers, and light... Heaven... That's what I picture when everyone here is complaining about the weather, or when Arthur throws a broken shoe-heel at my head after it's snapped clean off from yet another pair of boots he's worn to shreds._

Arthur wrote her love letters, too. More specifically, he wrote_ Gwen_ love letters and simply put Freya's _name_ on them. It would be improper for him, a married prince, to write Gwen, a servant, daughter of a dead blacksmith, but not impossible, during the bleak twilit evenings when Merlin's prattle and general ineptness at everything was driving him mad and the knights were grumbling about wanting to go home, to pretend, almost fool himself, until the very end when he knew he must put his shy, mousy wife's name down and not that of Guinevere, who had inspired everything he'd said within, that he was writing to the girl he was actually thinking of.

Freya, for her part, upon receiving the letters, thought nothing of all her husband's pretty words. She knew from the start that they were not really for_ her_. Arthur had kissed her once (an event she'd chosen, out of pure embarrassment, to selectively exclude from her conversations with Merlin) alone in their chambers, not because he had begun to care for her, but, rather, because he'd had too much wine at supper and was a bit tight. She had tasted the wine on his breath, once she'd gotten over her surprise at his suddenly grabbing onto her and pressing his lips against hers. She had even heard him whimper when she pulled away. He murmured her name, or at least, what he'd _thought_ was her name, in his intoxicated state.

He had called her _Guinevere_.

There was one paragraph Arthur composed, amidst all the dozens and dozens of them in the letters that _weren't_, that might have actually been written out to Freya, intended for her eyes.

_I have the strangest idea, these last few days, that my manservant is in love_, wrote Arthur. _Merlin, though it scarcely seems possible, has been even more scatter-brained than usual; he's _mooning_, there's no other word for it. I can't imagine what poor unlucky girl has snagged his demented, unwavering attentions, but I'd send her my deepest condolences if only I could. It can't be anyone _here_, of course. We meet no women on this venture, only large, unfriendly men with short tempers and over-zealous territorial issues. So I gather it must be someone back in Camelot. He's been like this ever since that night or so we spent by this horrid lake that nearly swallowed up our campsite. Then he, myself, and two scouts I hand-picked had to go into a village market for supplies, and I spotted him, wandering off, not doing as I told him, looking at a stall that sold nothing but, wait for it, carved and blown _glass roses_! I thought he was completely useless _before_. Now I'm stuck on a dangerous mission my father refuses to let us return home from without Morgana with a lovestruck, pining, empty-headed manservant for company and assistance; I'll probably _die_. _

Around the same time Freya received the proceeding letter from Arthur, a small parcel arrived, well-wrapped in swabs of, somewhat dirty, torn fabric so it would not break, addressed to Gaius. Its contents were a glass rosebud so dark a red as to almost be black, stretching out into a slender crystal stem clear as lake waters on a summer's day.

As Freya still did not fully trust herself around Gaius, hard as she'd worked on extending control, as a Bastet, when she went to see him at midnight (she couldn't sneak out in Merlin's clothes every night for a year, not the least because he'd taken just about all of his clothing _with_ him), she had the physician bind her with strong ropes and cords, using her practiced control only as a second resort, a mere_ precaution_, should she accidentally become agitated and break her bonds (she did, but only once, and Gaius lived, though he nearly had a heart attack when she growled at him, baring her teeth as she snarled threateningly).

After she was a human again, Gaius unfastened the bonds, then went to fetch the already previously opened parcel.

"When I saw what it was," said Gaius, "I gathered quickly enough that Merlin wasn't sending it to _me_."

Freya saw the rose, holding it up to the dim candlelight in the physician's chambers. "_Beautiful_."

Gaius sighed. Yes, it _was _beautiful. The glass rose was a very pretty thing indeed, and Merlin had sent it in good faith, thinking (innocently enough, no doubt), of nothing but bringing a little smile to Freya's face. The boy _did _dote on her dreadfully, and must be missing her an awful lot after all this time away. But the unmasked delight on the girl's face made him worry. It ought, really, to be _Arthur_ sending trinkets and baubles back home to the Princess Freya as symbols of undying affection, not Merlin. This was only going to end in _trouble_. Trouble with a capitol T.

AND NOT ALL of that trouble was to be contained in Freya and Merlin's hands, to be entirely fair. Uther's health was still falling apart, reports of dead knights and troops began coming to Camelot in increasing amounts, and Freya gathered up her courage and asked Gaius, flat-out, if anyone would bother to send word if anything happened to Merlin.

"Of course," Gaius had said, too hurriedly.

"Gaius," said Freya, her tone uncharacteristically stern. "Please don't lie to me. I can see fear in your eyes. There were no letters sent with the messengers this time, and I can see it worries you as much as me."

"Freya..."

"Please, tell me the truth," she begged. "If he... If something happened... Would we, or would we _not_, be told?"

"He's a servant," said Gaius, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Whatever he means to us, he matters little to Uther who has more important things to worry about."

"Like Morgana?"

He nodded. "You know that the king is obsessed with finding her. If we ever _do_, I can almost guarantee you the girl will do no wrong in his eyes."

"So, Merlin...?"

"If anything happened to him, we would likely not know until Arthur's return, when he would, if he felt inclined, give me his condolences personally," Gaius admitted.

"I am Arthur's _wife_," murmured Freya, swallowing hard. "He should tell me."

Gaius shrugged. "I'm sorry."

"He's alive," she decided. "He promised."

"Freya, I don't mean to upset you, but might I ask you something?"

She nodded. "Yes?"

"When you died," he said, very seriously, brow lowered, "if it would have calmed him, would you have promised Merlin you would live?"

"Yes." Yes, with all her heart, and without a moment's hesitation.

"But would you have been able to _keep_ that promise," he continued pointedly, "when it came down to your last breath?"

"No, of course not."

"So you understand...?"

Freya closed her eyes. She did, but she didn't _want_ to. She wanted him back, safe and alive.

For nearly a week, she sat by the window in Arthur's chambers, looking out, eating only when Gwen came in with food and urged her to (Uther no longer requested her, or anyone else, for that matter, to come and formally dine with him, only eating when he absolutely _had_ to or else risk perishing from hunger himself).

Freya held the glass rose by its stem and twirled it in the light, watching the glass petals flicker from ruby-red to black blood in the sunbeams.

Then, one glorious morning, trumpets were sounded and Freya slowly pulled herself up from her chair, lifting the latch on the window and leaning out to see.

The troops were coming in, the living knights arriving with Arthur leading them at the front. And there, by his side, was Merlin; pale and tired, thinner than Freya remembered, his hair cropped a little shorter, but as alive and safe as she'd hoped for.

The largest, strongest-armed of the knights, dismounting from his horse, carried in a black-haired bundle wrapped in red cloaks and blankets: the Lady Morgana.

Merlin, also dismounting, did not glance up at the window to look for Freya leaning out of it; his eyes were glued to Morgana as the knight carrying her in disappeared through the front doors of the castle. He had no idea what would happen now. When Morgana awoke properly, and spoke, what would become of him? Where had she _really_ been all this time? There had been so little she was able to tell them before passing out when they found her.

Then at last he noticed Freya at the window. He wanted to smile, but his face would not oblige. Still, he could stare and drink in the sight of her after so long.

Arthur was giving him orders. He barked something about needing his armour polished and horses attended to, their stalls mucked out, the usual...blah blah blah...

"Then," Arthur went on, convinced Merlin was not actually listening to a single word he said, "I want you to take a pair of scissors and trim the grass on the tournament ground to the length of my little finger." He held up his pinky.

Merlin didn't respond. Freya had always been thin, but even from up high and at a distance she looked skinnier than he'd remembered. He knew _he_ had lost some weight, living as they had over the last year, but he hadn't expected her to be so diminished as well. Any more and the poor girl would need to have that dress taken in. He had the most absurd urge to run inside, dash up the stairs, pull her into his arms, and hand-feed her as many strawberries as she could keep down. But, of course, that would have been wildly inappropriate. And, besides, they had Morgana to worry about now. How thin either of them had gotten would matter little if she told Uther they'd poisoned her. In fact, they might have done a favor for the executioner, all things considered, their new, scrawnier necks easier to chop off.

"Merlin!" Arthur waved his hand in front of his manservant's face and snapped his fingers. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," he blurted. "Yes. I look...forward...to that."

"Cheer up, Merlin, Morgana's home," Arthur said. "You know what that means, don't you?"

That she could have my head presented to her on a platter if she's feeling even _remotely_ vindictive? he thought.

"No more riding around on your little bottom."

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Merlin woke in his own bed, sunlight coming in from the window and tickling his face.

It had taken him forever to fall asleep. After midnight, before Freya left, they'd both looked at Gaius with expressions like those of helpless children caught in a tempest, as if begging him for reassurance.

"What do you think Uther will do to us?" Merlin had asked quietly.

"Freya is the king's daughter-in-law, the crown princess, and formerly his ward, as Morgana still is," Gaius reminded them, knowing it would calm Merlin a little, if he knew _Freya_ wasn't likely to be in any immediate danger.

"They will blame _Merlin_, then," Freya had said, visibly terrified. "For what happened."

"What do you think Uther will do to _me_?" Merlin asked next, blinking up at Gaius again.

"Let us wait and see what tomorrow brings," Gaius finally told him. Then, a little curtly, "It's getting late, Freya, go back to Arthur's chambers."

Before leaving, Freya kissed Merlin on the cheek and whispered something short, sweet, and, in all likelihood, highly inappropriate for a married princess to whisper to an unattached servant, in his ear.

"I'm going to _pretend_ I didn't see or hear that," Gaius had said dryly, giving them both a warning raise of one eyebrow. "We don't need yet _another _reason for Uther to want either of your heads."

Now Merlin gazed up at the ceiling. For all he knew, this could be his last day. Morgana would probably be awake, and possibly already telling Arthur or Uther (or both) what Merlin and Freya had done to her.

"Merlin." Gaius appeared over him.

He swallowed and began to sit up.

"Arthur has requested your presence." He paused. "In Morgana's chambers."

"Freya?"

"I imagine she's there, too," Gaius told him. "Best not keep them waiting."

Sheepishly, he approached Morgana's chambers. Merlin could hear voices within. Arthur was asking where Morgana had been all this time, and Morgana was filling him in on details of dark cells and magical bandits who had killed at least one of the patrols Uther had sent out. She said she took her chances when they were distracted by spoils and couldn't believe it when she saw Arthur and knew he would rescue her and bring her home.

Arthur, sitting on the bed with her, pulled her into a comforting embrace.

Freya sat on the edge of the bed; Morgana, after pulling away from Arthur, reached out and squeezed her hand.

Merlin looked on at this. As a servant, he had no leave to interrupt or say a word without permission, even if he had been summoned here. What did she want with him? Why was she holding Freya's hand? Wasn't she angry with her?

"I think I need to rest," said Morgana wearily.

Arthur stood. "You're safe now. Everything's going to be all right."

Freya couldn't rise; Morgana still had her hand.

Merlin found himself caught between wanting to leave the room with Arthur and wanting to stay and make sure Morgana didn't harm Freya.

Finally, Morgana spoke. "_Merlin_."

"My lady," he said politely, stiffly, coming over to stand closer to the bed.

"I want to speak to you." Her eyes darted to Freya. "Both of you."

Merlin looked over his shoulder; Arthur was gone. When he looked back at Morgana, her eyes were on him again. "I know what you did."

His heart beat like a hammer.

"You tried to poison me."

"I..." he stammered. "I didn't want to..."

She took in a heavy, tearful breath. "It's all right, Merlin, I understand." She smiled at Freya. "All either of you were doing was trying to protect your friends. I would have done the same."

"Really?" asked Freya.

"I was so naive, Freya," she sobbed. "I don't think I really understood what I was doing. But, believe me, I have seen the evils in this world." She paused and, reaching out, bushed a lock of Freya's hair behind one ear. "I have seen firsthand what Uther fights against." Her attention zeroed back in on Merlin. "You don't know how much I regret everything that I've done." Morgana's tears spilled over and she wept harder. "I just... I just hope that you can forgive me. I put you both in so much danger; I put Camelot..."

"I am so sorry," Merlin said, whole-heartedly, "for everything you've been through." He smiled shakily at her. "It's good to have you back."

Freya nodded in earnest agreement and responded warmly when Morgana let go of her hand and hugged her, but a cold, confused fear still lived in her heart. She didn't dare share it, not even with Merlin just yet, for she could see how desperately he wanted to believe Morgana was really and truly forgiving them. She wanted to believe it, too. But there was one thing, one small, nagging little thing Freya did not (_could_ not) understand.

Morgana spoke of a cell. Why on earth would Morgause put her in a cell? Morgana and Morgause both had magic; they were sisters. Merlin told her Morgause had been overcome with grief when Morgana nearly died from the hemlock; so why would she hand her over to bandits to be imprisoned? More confusing still was what Morgana said about seeing what Uther fought against. She acted as if Freya was her friend, that she loved her still, and yet she spoke against magic. She knew, though she never said a word about it, that Freya was a Druid. How could she hate Uther's enemies and yet protect one? How could she regret everything she'd done and feel no compulsion to tell Uther who his daughter-in-law _really_ was?

Freya pushed those thoughts away. What did they _matter_? They were only that: little thoughts, doubts... Nothing more. Perhaps Morgana really was back with them and nothing was wrong; maybe Morgana loved her friends every bit as much as she claimed, for what they _did _and not what they _were_.

And so the Princess of Camelot kept silent, thinking (or hoping) she was doing right.

Until, one morning, Merlin wasn't there to wake herself and Arthur. Gaius (when Arthur stormed into his quarters demanding to know where his lazy ass of a servant was) said he hadn't come home the night before. And it came heavily upon Freya's heart and conscience, like a millstone in her lap, what a foolish, foolish decision she'd made.


	10. Much Ado, Ending in Blackmail

~Chapter ten: Much Ado, Ending In Blackmail~

FREYA'S STOMACH HURT. It was another miserable night. She found, if not _comfort_, then at least a faint hint of indifference, a sort of numbness, in this place between waking and sleeping, curled up on her side of the bed, mentally tuning out (as she'd had to learn to, at least to _some_ extent, or else go mad) Arthur's snoring. The guilt and fear dulled slightly in this half-and-half state that was neither slumber nor wakefulness; just enough so that it wasn't hurting every bone in her body, every fiber of her being.

Her stomach still ached, though, and her head still throbbed. Her nerves had gotten the best of her from the start.

_Where_ was Merlin?

Gaius had asked Gwen if she'd seen him, Morgana coming into the room shortly thereafter and noticing the grave look on both of their faces. But all she had said, in a _far_ too light tone of 'surprise', was "That's not like him."

Freya no longer trusted her. She couldn't explain it, even if she _had_ dared try, yet there was this sure-as-anything feeling in her gut that Morgana had had something to do with Merlin's sudden and unannounced disappearance. Worse still, she had the feeling, the one that would not go away, that if only she had done something-_said_ something-she could have protected him.

It would have been such a relief to weep over this, even just once, but she could not permit herself. Firstly, because it would mean giving in; it would mean that she believed he was never coming back, that whatever Morgana had done was permanent and her Merlin was lost to Camelot, and his destiny, forever. She wouldn't let herself believe that; he was _not_ dead. Secondly, Arthur, though there was very little about her he actually took note of on a day-to-day basis, she was fairly certain, stumbling upon her crying openly would at least give him _pause_, if nothing further. And she had no energy left to shed those desired tears, let alone explain them away.

So she had withdrawn inside herself, hoping against hope that Merlin was all right and would, somehow, find his way back to Camelot from wherever he happened to be.

It was quickly getting to the point where she distinguished surprisingly little difference between her nights, shivering even under all of the warm blankets in Arthur's bed, and her early mornings, when sunlight peeked through the gap in the curtains and she remembered all over again that Merlin wasn't there to pull them all the way open and say, "Rise and shine," the way he always did. Both were, in their own sick ways, equally long and painful.

But, then, on the morning when Freya thought she might not even bother getting out of bed, perhaps feigning a chill caught from a draft the day before if any questions were asked, the curtains were pulled open and sunlight stretched the full distance, to each and every corner of Arthur's chambers.

Freya didn't open her eyes or move; just felt a trace of the spreading sunlight from the window warm the back of her eyelids.

Arthur grunted and began to prop himself up on his elbow.

And a familiar voice, gasping in shocked incredulity, exclaimed, "_What happened_?"

The disbelief was in regards, evidently, to the beyond messy state of the room. Arthur had not been particularly tidy without a servant to pick up after him, leaving things (wooden bowls, shoes, hunting equipment, sword-belts, trousers, robes, pieces of armour, etc...) strewn all over the floor. The wardrobe was also open, articles of clothing hanging out of the ajar doors. It looked as if Arthur's chambers had been hit by some kind of freak wind storm. Freya had not _contributed_ to the mess, keeping anything her fingers happened to touch in their proper places, but she had been too worried to bother trying to put anything her husband mislaid back where it belonged; she just stepped over things when the need arose, or kept to a corner by the window, where she was out of the way of the mess and it was out of her way as well.

"What happened?" Arthur snapped, sinking back into the mattress. "I've had to make do without a servant, that's what's happened!"

"Merlin?" murmured Freya, her eyes shooting open as her exhausted mind registered the voice at last.

"I wasn't gone for _that_ long," protested Merlin.

"Without my permission?" said Arthur crossly.

Freya was leaping out of the bed now and running over to him. She was so relieved she couldn't stop herself. "Merlin!" She threw her arms around him, pulling him into a hug, not bothering to consider the fact that Arthur was watching. It was an innocent, friendly embrace, of course, but it was still just a little bit too familiar to be shared between a princess and a servant and be thought of as strictly 'proper'.

"Oh, for God's sake, Freya!" snorted Arthur. "He's not such a treasure that you have to react like that to his return. He's quite possibly the worst servant I've ever had, actually. We might have done better to be rid of him. Taking off like that was entirely inexcusable."

"I was worried about him, is all," she said quietly, pulling away from him. She noticed that Merlin had fought back a grimace during that hug; he was clearly healing, but he _had_ been hurt, wherever he'd been.

"What _is_ it with girls?" mulled Arthur, irritably. "A pet or a servant goes missing and they lose their heads. Men, on the other hand, we're different. More sensible. _I_ would never embrace a _servant_."

"No, of course you wouldn't," muttered Merlin, rather too loudly, "What servant would _let _you?"

"Merlin, you're testing my patience," growled Arthur. "You should have _been _here."

"What if I was dying?" cried Merlin, sounding, Freya thought, too agitated (too _outraged_) for that not to have actually been the case.

"I wouldn't be complaining!" he snapped. "But you're not, so where have you been?"

Merlin glanced at Freya, standing beside him, still in her nightgown, the corners of her sore, red-rimmed eyes still crusted with rheum and her black hair uncombed, then back at Arthur. "I _was_ dying."

Arthur glared. "I don't have time for this." He sat up and yanked the covers off of himself, dangling his bare feet over the side of the bed. "The future of the kingdom, rests upon my shoulders." He pointed at Merlin. "Do you have _any_ idea what that feels like?"

Merlin looked at Freya again; she almost smiled. If she had been less anxious, less overcome with his return, she might have done. "Well..."

"Merlin." Arthur's finger was up again, warningly, and his tone was very no-nonsense. "I should have you thrown in the dungeons, so what have you got to say for yourself?"

Merlin considered. "You've not had your breakfast this morning, have you?"

"I'll have _you _for breakfast!" Arthur shouted, grabbing the first hard object his hand touched, prepared to hurl it at Merlin's head. Then he noticed Freya was kind of in the way. "Um, Freya, would you mind terribly moving a few inches to the side there? Oh, and ducking? You know, so I can throw this at my manservant's head and then proceed to stuff my boot up his sorry arse when it retreats?"

"Merlin?" whispered Freya, leaning.

"Yes?"

"Can I offer a word of advice here?"

"Oh, please _do_." He nodded quickly.

"_Run_."

"Good idea." He turned around and ran as quick as he could for the doors.

Arthur threw the object at him, narrowly missing.

"Oh, no wonder this place is such a mess!" called Merlin's voice, sarcastically, over his shoulder, as he vanished into the corridor. "Oh, yes, I can see you've got all the makings of a great king..."

Arthur hurled something else that probably would have left a bruise had it actually made contact with Merlin's head, neck, shoulders, or upper back, but he was already long gone, so it just hit the wood of the left door.

LATER, MERLIN WALKED down a different corridor, when a hand reached out of an alcove and snatched his wrist, pulling him in, roughly, angrily, without even the smallest measurement of attempted gentleness.

Morgana's sneering face glared up at him. "I don't know how," she snarled, "you managed to escape." She resisted against his effort to shake free from her grasp. "But I do know one thing: if you breathe a word of what you saw, I will make your life a very short and painful one." He pulled harder and she finally let go of his wrist.

He swallowed. "You don't scare me, Morgana."

"I don't have to," she told him, smirking evilly, tilting her head to one side, knowing full-well she'd already won. "Just think how Uther would react if he learned that a serving boy had tried to poison his beloved ward."

Merlin's chest heaved with heavy, anxious breaths. Blackmail. Pure and simple, easy as if he'd handed it to her on a silver platter from the ancient gods and goddess of Britain themselves. She _had _him and she knew it.

"Or, for that matter," she said, arching an eyebrow, "that he conspired with a Druid girl to do so?"

His eyes widened.

"Oh, you didn't _know_, Merlin?" she snickered mockingly. "Well, let me fill you in. It seems I'm not the only one hiding magic, which you so kindly kept a secret up until that moment you tried to _kill _me, under Uther's nose in this castle. Princess Freya has been lying to him from the start." She let out a light snort and shook her head. "She's no Lady of Shalott."

"Morgana..."

"Oh, but that's all right," she went on, her smirk tightening, "because _you're_ not going to say anything, about me _or_ her, having magic; not just yet. And _I'm _not going to tell, not until I have a little more time to figure out exactly whose side she's on and what I intend to do about it."

"Freya," panted Merlin, "is just a girl. She hasn't done anything to you... The poison was my idea, I-"

Morgana rolled her eyes. "Do you really think I'm stupid enough to believe that, Merlin?"

"She's Arthur's wife," he tried, grasping for some footing in all this. "To bring an accusation against me is nothing; not to you, and not to Uther. To bring one against _Freya_, that... That is an entirely different matter. You wouldn't risk..."

"Don't forget, Merlin," Morgana told him, "that just because I've decided to let no harm come to her in case she proves useful to me, doesn't mean I actually _need _her. If you breathe one word, just _one_ word, then you _and_ your little Druid friend will regret it."

"I don't understand how anyone would want to _hurt _their friends," mumbled Merlin.

"No," said Morgana coldly. "You just poison them."

"Freya is your friend, too." _Or at least she _was_, before you became like this..._

"Perhaps." She shrugged indifferently. "But that's beside the point. The important thing is that she's _your _friend. And nothing is more important to you than your friends, if I understand you right. Even the ones with dark little secrets. You'll do whatever it takes to protect her, even if you won't protect your own sorry neck." She started to step out of the alcove. "I would expect nothing less."

Helpless, unable to say anything further, Merlin leaned back against the stone wall and watched Morgana slowly and proudly, head held high, walk away, vanishing down at the other end of the corridor.

"I WASN'T EXPECTING you yet," Merlin said, when Freya came in around suppertime; he and Gaius were sitting at the table, eating leftover stew.

She smiled. "I needed to speak with you."

"Does Arthur know you're here?" Gaius asked.

She shook her head.

"Where does he think you are?" Merlin wanted to know.

"Napping on the divan to recover from a headache." Freya shrugged. "It's only a pillow under the blanket, but he doesn't need to know that."

"And Uther?" Gaius frowned. "Didn't he request your presence to take a meal with himself, Morgana, and your husband? What did you tell _him_?"

"That I got too much sun picking flowers in one of the hothouses."

Merlin smiled.

"Merlin!" chided Gaius, looking concerned. "Don't grin at that. She's being blatantly deceptive."

"You mean more than usual?" Merlin asked pointedly. Freya _had_ to be deceptive. She was like him; Uther couldn't know who-and _what_-she really was or she'd be as good as dead.

"She has to keep the fact that she's a Druid secret," said Gaius. "But she has no reason to sneak off and see you in the middle of the day by means of lying about it."

"I_ had_ to," insisted Freya, sort of quietly. "I've been so afraid." She looked imploringly at Gaius, as if willing him to somehow understand. "When he went missing... I was starting to think..." Her voice caught in her throat, and she found herself choking on the words.

Merlin stood up and put his arms around her. "I'm fine, Freya." He kissed her forehead and lifted up her chin with his index finger. "As a matter of fact, I'm pleased to tell you, I've never felt more alive."

Freya grinned teasingly. "That's good."

"Yeah?"

"Because I still think Arthur wants to kill you."

"Lovely," he chuckled. "Just great. I look forward to that."

"He'll cool down," Freya told him. "He would never admit it, but just between you and me, I think he was worried about you, too."

"Thanks for your advice earlier, by the way," said Merlin. "It was a real life-saver. Possibly literally."

"Morgana had something to do with you being gone, didn't she?" Freya asked flat-out, her voice back to being serious.

"She and Morgause kind of tried to kill me," Merlin admitted, a tad sheepishly. "I followed Morgana, when she was going out to meet her, and they didn't like that I was listening in. Morgana especially didn't like that I knew she was still talking to her sister and could tell Arthur all those things she said about being a prisoner for the past year were lies. She knew I was there from the start, and she let Morgause chain me up..." He continued his story, telling her about how the chains had been magical, growing tighter and tighter, and none of his incantations could break them; and then the Serkets began to swarm. One of them stung him on the back. If Kilgharrah hadn't answered his call, he would never have survived.

Freya stroked one of his cheeks with the back of her fingers. "Were you frightened?"

"Maybe a little," he confessed softly, leaning closer to her.

Gaius, seeing that they were being too familiar with each other again, rolled his eyes and told Freya to sit down. "You've not eaten yet, have you?"

She shook her head. Having declined supper so she could sneak in here and hear Merlin's story, she had of course not had a single bite.

Gaius poured her some stew and made room for her at the table.

"This is good," Freya told Gaius, spooning some of the stew into her mouth and nodding appreciatively. "Thank you." She turned to Merlin, who had also sat back down. "You...we... One of us, at least, has to say something to Arthur about Morgana."

"We can't," said Merlin sadly. "She's got us in a bind and she knows it."

"What do you mean?"

"She knows you're a Druid and possibly suspects I already knew that."

Gaius looked nervous. "Merlin, you told me Morgana didn't know you had magic!"

"She doesn't," Merlin assured him. "But, like I said then, she knows I tried to poison her, and that Freya knew what was happening."

"Uther hangs on her every word now more than ever," moaned Gaius. "If we tell him she's conspiring with Morgause he'll never believe us. Even Arthur would be doubtful."

"Morgana would say it was a false accusation," Freya knew; "to save my own skin. Because I'm a Druid and I lied about it."

"Does she know about your curse?" Gaius asked next.

"I don't think so," Freya said. She certainly _hoped_ not.

"Let's try and keep it that way." Gaius let out a low groan.

After the stew was finished, Gaius told Freya to leave and come back when she was _supposed_ to: quarter to midnight. "People would expect you here then. Right now it only raises suspicions."

"Morgana comes in here all the time," protested Freya.

"To inquire about a sleeping draught," Gaius pointed out, a little sharply. "As everyone around here would_ expect_ her to do. I've treated her since she was a child. You're a newer patient, Freya; _her_ excuses don't always work for you."

"All right." She rose up and smiled shakily. "I'll go." She glanced at Merlin. "See you later."

"Freya..." Gaius stared very hard at her, never taking his eyes off her face as he got up and held open the door for her.

"Yes?"

He leaned out into the corridor and looked both ways, just to be sure no one was listening. "I hope you realize that Merlin has no intentions of betraying Arthur."

Freya blinked at him, puzzled. "Of course."

"In _any _way," he added.

Merlin sighed. "Gaius, _please_..."

Freya finally understood. "I _know_."

"I think he would appreciate it if you didn't tempt him."

"Gaius!" protested Merlin, from where he was still sitting.

"You sneak around the castle enough when you _need_ to," Gaius pressed. "If you come here again after lying to Arthur or Uther about your whereabouts, I may have to deny you admittance. This cannot go on."

She nodded, bit her lower lip, and wordlessly walked down the corridor.

Merlin glared at Gaius as he shut the door behind her. "Why did you have to talk to her like that?"

"Like what?"

"She's our _friend_, Gaius!" he exclaimed, standing up. "She was worried about me. That's all. Nothing has happened. And you're right, Gaius, I don't intend for it to, but you don't have to talk to her like she's the enemy."

"I wasn't speaking to her like she was the enemy, Merlin," Gaius said. "But I _was_ trying to protect you. She gets overly familiar with you, shows you how easy it is for her to sneak around behind Arthur's back, and you honestly expect me to believe _nothing _is going to come out of all this?"

"Yes!" cried Merlin. "I expect you to believe it, because it's the _truth_!"

"I believe you _think_ you mean that," Gaius told him, "but I also believe that you don't know _how_ to just be her friend."

"Oh, that is _not_ true!"

Gaius slumped down onto a stool. "Just eat your stew, Merlin."

"I'm _done_," he said, lowering his brow. They'd all been finished when Gaius had dismissed Freya and this argument had started.

"Then clear away the dishes," he grunted curtly.

"Gaius..." Merlin took a step closer to him. "I'm sorry. I know you were only trying to help, it's just... Freya means a lot to me, she's one of the best people I've ever known, and I think you hurt her feelings." And he _hated_ seeing her hurt.

"Freya's a good girl," Gaius said, "but what you need to understand, is that _you _are my top priority, Merlin, not her. She has as much protection at the moment as she's likely to get: she has you to keep her sane when she's a Bastet and a politically strong marriage with Arthur to ward off anyone without magic thinking she's a Druid. It's _you_ who's most likely to get hurt in all this. I don't want to see that happen."

"It won't, Gaius," Merlin said, putting a hand on the physician's shoulder. "Please trust me."

"I do," Gaius replied. "Please don't betray that trust."

THAT NIGHT, AFTER Freya turned back into a human, Gaius was asleep in Merlin's room. He had tried to keep awake, but was tired from a long day of seeing patients and worrying about Merlin and Freya, and what Morgana's plans might be, and couldn't force his old eyes to stay open.

Merlin opened the door a crack and peeked in, hearing snoring. "He's sleeping."

Freya swallowed back a giggle. "Where are _you_ going to sleep?"

"Out here, I guess." He shrugged. "I'm not that tired, though."

"I should go back," said Freya, though she made no effort to actually do so.

Merlin looked out the window. "Nice night tonight."

"Beautiful moon," commented Freya.

He looked back at the dozing Gaius. "Do you want to go somewhere?"

"Where would we go?"

"I'm a Dragonlord," Merlin reminded her. "We can go anywhere you like."

"Kilgharrah won't like that," Freya laughed.

"He'll be fine," Merlin said, fighting back an unconcerned snort. "One ride won't kill him. We could go over a meadow. Or a lake."

"One completely _frivolous_ ride."

Merlin considered this. "Would it make you smile?"

"I suppose so," said Freya.

"Then it's not frivolous." His fingers closed around her wrist. "Come on."

"All right."

They crept out, carefully peering and squinting down every corridor before they entered it, not feeling safe until they had made it out into a concealed clearing where they were in sight of the castle but it was not necessarily in sight of _them_.

Freya watched, a little awestruck, as Merlin summoned the Great Dragon.

"Hello, young warlock," he said, landing directly in front of them. "Hello again, cursed Druid. Or, I suppose I should say, your Highness."

"Hello." Merlin grinned at him.

"What do you need?"

Merlin told him.

The dragon's face contorted into an expression of deep annoyance. "I am not a _horse_, Merlin!"

Nonetheless, not even ten minutes later, they were soaring over the lake of Avalon as the yellow-white reflection of the moon shone over it, setting it alight with glittering sparkles.

Freya held onto Merlin's waist while he rode at the front and occasionally bellowed directions to the disgruntled and highly offended but evidently acceptant Great Dragon. With anybody else, she would have been afraid of falling off, but not with Merlin; she knew he wouldn't let her fall. She was sure, if all else failed, he'd use magic to break her fall should her tightening grasp on him suddenly slip for some reason. She trusted him as she trusted nobody else.

All too soon, it was time to be getting back. Merlin thanked Kilgharrah, who grumbled something about 'impertinent warlocks and abuse of Dragonlord power,' yet did not, for all that, seem particularly angry, and they headed for the castle on foot.

Freya crept, quiet as a mouse, into her side of the bed in Arthur's chambers. He grunted something in his sleep that was either 'potatoes' or else 'tomatoes' and never actually stirred or so much as cracked an eyelid. Arthur hadn't the foggiest clue she'd been gone any longer than she was supposed to.

Merlin was not so lucky.

He walked in to Gaius standing in the middle of the room with his arms folded across his chest. "Merlin, where have you been?"

"Uh..." He smiled guiltily. "Out."

"With Freya?"

"Yes."

"Merlin, I _trusted_ you..."

"I _know_. And we didn't do anything wrong. We just weren't tired, that's all. I took her to see a lake."

"Do anything like that again and I'm getting a padlock on the door," said Gaius, putting his hand to his forehead in frustration. "Go to bed."

Merlin obeyed, but he still couldn't sleep. He was up most of the night, staring at the ceiling, thinking, deep inside his mind where Gaius couldn't say anything against it, about Freya.

He imagined another life, one where it was _him_ Freya had married instead of Arthur, in the Druid fashion, perhaps barefoot, and by the shores of a lake.


	11. Gilli

**AN: I apologize in advance for any spelling errors in this chapter. My spellchecker was being a real pain in the butt when I was working on this and I KNOW it skipped over some obvious mistakes it refused to fix, and I've tried to go over all of these with a fine-tooth comb myself, but in spite of the fact that I read CONSTANTLY and try to write every day, my spelling is still not my strong point. So I apologize if there are any errors I missed; I really tried my darndest to catch and fix them all.**

~Chapter eleven: Gilli~

FOR CENTURIES, ONCE every ten years, what was considered (by most) to be a very special tournament was held on the castle grounds of Camelot.

To Merlin, who was still a bit fuzzy on what was so entertaining about (so-called) full-grown noblemen dressing up in battle armour and trying to beat the living daylights out of each other, even if they were friends or allies, all in 'good fun', there was nothing particularly 'special' about it. He thought that, if you had seen one tournament, you'd basically seen them all.

And, to be fair, the disapproving young warlock was not entirely _wrong_. There _were_ only so many times one could watch a pair of knights try to knock each other off their horses with long, pointy jousting sticks.

Nonetheless, this tournament _was _special; _truly_, in a way the dozens of others Merlin had been forced to endure, all but biting his nails on the sidelines, since coming into Prince Arthur's employment, had not been. _This_ tournament, unlike all others, had absolutely no rules, an actually tangible prize of a hundred gold coins (as opposed to nothing whatever, save the smug satisfaction of being able to brag incessantly afterward about beating everybody else and being more respected than usual for about a day or so before things went back to normal), and it was open to anybody who wished to compete; even commoners.

Merlin looked out of Arthur's window at a line of less-than-honourable-looking competitors making their way to the designated practice fields and clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Did _anyone_," he sighed, "think this tournament through?" He glanced over his shoulder at Arthur, who was trying on an armour-plated guard for his wrist. "A contest, open to all comers, with a prize of a hundred gold coins." Sucking his teeth lightly, he hummed in a pretend-pensive manner. "Hmm, I wonder what kind of people are going to turn up."

"It's _tradition_, Merlin," Arthur told him, his tone laced with irked boredom. "And you're meant to be _washing_ that window, not hanging out of it, gawking like an idiot at passersby."

Freya, who had been seated quietly in the far corner, holding the glass rosebud Merlin had bought for her concealed inside the long sleeve of her velvet-and-halved-pearl dress so Arthur wouldn't see it, spoke up. "I agree with Merlin." It was a tradition, but it was a stupid one; one that typically resulted in at least one or two deaths _minimum_. It was quite barbaric, and there seemed very little of real value to be gained from it.

Life, Freya found, after being magically restored to it, was too precious to squander in such a foolish manner.

"Yes," said Arthur impatiently, "but that's because you're a _girl_, Freya." He snorted, as if she couldn't possibly understand. "You don't know what it's like for men. How important it is to keep with tradition and prove ourselves."

"You think I'm more concerned with clothes and gossip than with honour and tradition?" Freya asked. Her voice was meek, but there was an edge to her tone, something about the way she uttered those words, that was not usually there.

"Well, to be fair," Arthur admitted, "I've never seen you gossip. So _no_, actually. It's not _that_. It's more that I think you have a different way of looking at things because of your gender."

"Perhaps it's because _her _gender gets their heads knocked around less than you knights do," Merlin suggested.

Freya smiled lightly, appreciatively. In the seclusion of her sleeve, her fabric-buried fingers caressed the stem of the glass rosebud.

"Oh, just shut up and clean that window before I shove you out of it," Arthur sighed, dropping a sword, and his now unfastened wrist-guard, on the table in front of himself.

_CLINK_; THE BOY'S ring fell to the corridor floor as he turned a sharp corner, panting.

Gilli, for that was his name, didn't notice his loss until it was too late to turn back and scoop it up again without being noticed. He hadn't realized he wasn't supposed to be in that part of the castle (commoners competing in the tournament were meant to stay outside and train; they weren't welcome to come in any further than the storage rooms and armouries). Not, really, that he'd had any choice about entering. He was being pursued and had to flee. All other ways had been blocked, so he'd simply gone through one of the main corridors. By some luck, it discouraged his pursuers; only then he'd had the guards to deal with.

They wouldn't even give him a chance to explain; they just ran after him, shouting like they meant either to scare him senseless for trespassing or else to haul his bottom off to the dungeons.

Well, he wasn't about to let them haul his hide _anywhere_. Not if it meant missing the tournament he had come all this way to participate in.

Naturally, when he discovered his ring had slipped from his finger when his hand had smashed against the turning point of the wall, scraping the skin off two of his knuckles, he had to press his back against a pillar and wait. He could only hope the guards would think he'd gone the other way, or simply get tired of standing around when there was no longer anyone to chase after and leave.

Finally, they did, but somebody else was walking down the corridor before Gilli could rush out there and reclaim his precious ring: a servant, it seemed; a servant with a steady stride, plain clothes, a scarf round his neck, dark hair, and large ears.

The servant stopped, looked down at his feet, saw the ring, and, curious, picked it up.

Gilli winced and closed his eyes. _Great_. How was he supposed to convince this unsuspecting castle servant to give it back no questions asked?

Although, all things considered, he supposed it could have been worse. The ring might have been discovered by a noble, in which case he would have no chance at all of getting it back. A noble wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't be seen speaking to a runty commoner like himself even in passing, but a humble servant just might be willing to be more reasonable.

MERLIN EXAMINED THE ring he had found. It was, plainly sculpted, of fine, intricate silver; a man's ring, no doubt, for its simplicity, yet the seal was not at all commonplace. It looked a bit familiar, though Merlin was fairly sure he had never seen its exact likeness before. He thought it might be of the Old Religion, though what it was doing here, in Camelot, was puzzling. If it was magic, or even merely _symbolic_ of magic in some way, who would have dared waltz into Camelot with it and then be careless enough to lose it in such an open, obvious place?

He intended to bring the ring to Gaius, to see if he knew anything further about it, but along the way, as he went through two other corridors, he ran into Freya, who was stepping out of a chamber to his left.

Merlin smiled at her and leaned against the wall.

Freya blushed. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he said. "Well, _listening_, I suppose."

She giggled lightly. "To what?"

"What's it look like?" he teased. "The wall."

Sighing, Freya cocked her head. "I don't think it's much of a conversationalist, Merlin."

"Nonsense." His smile widened into a full-on smirk. "_Shh_." He pressed his index finger to his lips. "The walls are whispering."

Freya raised an eyebrow, taking a step forward and leaning to the side, pressing her own ear against the wall, her face directly across from Merlin's. "And what do they say?"

"Well, a moment ago, they said I was going to have very lovely company any minute." His eye twitched, hinting at a wink, as he lowered his finger. "Apparently, they were right."

Her blush deepened. "_Merlin..._"

He stood up straight, and she did the same. "Here, can I show you something?"

Freya nodded.

Merlin held out the ring. "I found this."

"Where?" she whispered, looking both ways and taking it from him.

"Just lying on the floor in the corridor a short ways back," he told her. "I was going to show it to Gaius, but I just thought... Maybe you would know what it was?"

"I think I've seen something like it before," said Freya, glancing down at the ring resting harmlessly in her cupped hand. "I just... I can't remember, not exactly..." She shrugged apologetically and handed it back to Merlin.

"Why don't you hang onto it for a while?" Merlin suggested. "Then, if you remember anything... I can always show it to Gaius _later_. I mean, you can keep it hidden, can't you?"

She nodded. That wouldn't be a problem. After all, Arthur never had found the glass rosebud; she could easily hide the ring next to it, or even put the ring around the stem like she would a finger.

"Here, give me your hand."

She did so.

He slid it onto one of the fingers of her outstretched hand, then found himself holding the aforementioned hand (now bearing the potentially magical ring) a little longer in his own than was strictly necessary.

It was right then that Gilli, having been trying to follow him without being detected and having lost him a corridor or so back, finally turned the right corner and was, unseen, able to catch another glimpse of the servant who had discovered his ring.

Things were evidently becoming more complicated. Gilli did not know who Freya was and simply thought that, though she was clearly (given the way she was dressed) of higher rank than the lowly servant, she was the sweetheart of the man who'd found the ring, and that Merlin was giving the ring to her as a token of his affection.

For, indeed, to an unacquainted observer who knew no better, that was honestly, no fooling, no muss, no fuss, how it _looked_.

So, mustering up his courage, when he saw Merlin again, walking outside, running an errand (something to do with swords and scabbards and boot polish), Gilli approached him.

"Hullo."

Merlin stopped walking and turned.

Standing behind him was a short young man, a fellow commoner, with sandy-coloured hair, wide-set blue eyes, a straight, longish nose, and a very serious expression on his face.

"Hello."

"I'm Gilli."

"Merlin," he told him.

"There's something I need to ask you about," said Gilli. He spoke with a noteworthy speech-impediment, rather like a lisp with an underlining stammer, but was still easy enough to understand in spite of that.

"What do you need?" Merlin asked, all too willing to be of assistance if he could.

"I lost a ring," he explained, a bit hurriedly, "the other day, in the castle. I know I wasn't supposed to be in there, but I didn't have a choice. These two thugs, Nollar and Tindr, they've been picking on me since..." He shook his head. "Anyway, they're competing in the tournament, too, nuffin but slobbering bullies, the both of 'em, and they were chasing me. Then the guards..."

Merlin nodded understandingly.

"Anyway, the ring, it belonged to my father," Gilli said. "I was upset to have lost it. But then I saw you give it your lady friend, and I was wondering, if she wouldn't mind terribly, could you get it back and return it to me?"

"Yeah," Merlin said. "I can do that. A gift passed from your father... That's a precious thing." He thought of his own father, who he'd known only so very briefly. "You might do well to keep a better watch on it, though."

Gilli nodded rapidly.

"I'll get it back for you," he promised.

FREYA CONTINUED TO examine the ring. She sat in her husband's chambers, at the wooden table, chair pulled in and elbows propped up. Arthur was busy preparing for the tournament, and while she kept her ears peeled for the sound of the door opening, she didn't, at that exact moment, need to conceal it. No one was near these quarters of the castle, save for herself.

She thought now that she understood what the ring was for. It _was_ from the Druids, forged of the Old Religion. She remembered now where she'd seen one before. When she was very, very small, a sort of distant uncle, who had died the year after she met him, had had one of these rings.

Straining, she could remember her uncle speaking to her parents about the ring. Supposedly, such rings were very rare, but they acted as a conduit, a channel for magical powers.

The owner of the ring didn't have, she suspected, powers like Merlin's, but they had to have been born with _some_ magic, or been of Druid linage at the very least, to wield it.

That is, if they did wield it, whomever they were, rather than using it as a decorative keepsake...

The door opened and Freya thrust the ring into the folds of her dress.

"It's just me."

"Merlin." She breathed a sigh of relief, recognizing his voice.

"I found him."

"Found who?"

"The owner of the ring."

Freya took the ring back out. "Who is he?"

"A boy," Merlin said, "here to compete in the tournament."

"He came here, to _Camelot_," said Freya, pensively, "with _this_?" She ran a finger over the seal, looking anxious.

"It was a gift from his father," explained Merlin.

"Merlin, maybe you _should_ have showed the ring to Gaius, after all. It _is_ magic, and I don't know much about it, but I know enough: I know what it is and what it can do. And that if he came here, intending to use this to better his odds in the tournament..." She shook her head. "It's dangerous."

"Are you sure?"

"Let me try something." She took out the glass rosebud Merlin had given her and laid it on the table, then slipped the ring back onto her finger. "_Blóstma_." Her eyes glowed and the ring lit up a bright, golden-orange colour.

The petals on the glass rosebud softened and opened up as if it were a real flower, the red colour of the glass becoming stronger whereas the black in it dulled slightly. The petals cooled and hardened, still open.

Merlin grinned. "It _is_ magic." And _Freya_ could wield it! For some reason, that knowledge filled him with a joy he couldn't fully explain, even to himself. It was enough to almost make him want to cry. "You were right."

"This boy," Freya whispered, "what is his name?"

"Gilli."

"I won't give him the ring if he means to use it to fight."

"But it _is_ his," Merlin pointed out. "We can't keep it."

"I won't let him cheat. Not with this kind of power. He'll get hurt." Freya sighed, thinking it over. "Could you take me to see him?"

"Yes."

"All right. Maybe I can try to reason with him."

"He didn't seem unreasonable," Merlin encouraged her. In fact, he thought Gilli reminded him a little of himself: an underdog, picked on, hiding who he really was and what he was capable of doing. "If he really does have the intention of using magic in front of all those people, right under Uther's nose, maybe he didn't think this through."

NO ONE PAID much attention as Merlin and a slender, cloaked figure edged their way through the crowded inn.

With several persons pressing close against them, Merlin and the cloaked figure were almost separated. A trembling hand came out from under the cloak and snagged his wrist.

"Don't let go of me until we find him," Merlin said shortly, not because he was cross, but because he was out of breath and trying to find someone who seemed to be in charge of the place so he could ask which room Gilli was in.

The innkeeper, laughing, said that, yes, he remembered the runty Gilli all right, and was very pleased he'd already paid in full for the room he was sharing with another guest, because he very much doubted he would live to see the end of the first day of the tournament.

"That's very...uh..._interesting_," said Merlin, flatly and insincerely (clearly he did not think much of the innkeeper's boorish sense of humour). "Can you direct me to his room, please? It's very important, and I'm sure he will want to see me and my friend. We have something of his."

"That way, third door." The innkeeper pointed.

"Thank you." Merlin nodded and gently tugged the cloaked figure behind himself as he fast-walked towards Gilli's shared room.

Luckily, he found him alone, the other person staying in the room being out drinking at the tavern.

"Gilli?" He rapped his knuckles on the wood of the door and lifted the latch.

"Merlin!" Gilli jumped up, running to the door, looking hopeful. "My ring. Did you bring it?"

"It's come here with me." He looked over his shoulder, walked all the way in, the cloaked figure at his side, and shut the door behind himself.

"Who's your silent friend?" Gilli shot a suspicious glance at the figure.

Two hands now came out from beneath the cloak and reached up to pull back the embroidered hood.

Standing there, Gilli saw, was the courtly lady he'd seen Merlin giving the ring to earlier.

Trying (and, overall, _failing_) not to gape, he managed a little bow. "My lady."

"Merlin tells me the ring belonged to your father," said Freya.

"Yes."

"Gilli," she said softly, closing her eyes. "I know what it is. It's pure magic."

"What are you going to do to me?" asked Gilli.

"Nothing," she told him. "But I cannot give you the ring back unless you promise not to use it in the tournament."

"Why?" Gilli squinted at her. "How does it concern you? Who are you, _really_?"

"Why are you asking me all these questions?" Freya squinted right back at him.

"All right," Gilli gave in. "I won't use it to fight in the tournament. I promise."

"Here, then." She slipped the ring off her finger and placed it in his hand. "Take back what is yours."

"Try not to lose it again," said Merlin.

"I won't," said Gilli. "And thank you." He nodded at Freya. "Both."

"Very well." She pulled the hood back over her head. "Come on, Merlin, someone's bound to notice we've been gone."

GILLI WAS NOT of a bad sort, but he had not been truthful with Freya when she gave him back the ring; he had simply said whatever it took to get it back. He still had, it appeared, every intention of fighting, and of using the ring's channel of magical powers to do so.

But fate and destiny had other ideas for the role Gilli would play in the story of Camelot. He was not, as he perhaps imagined, the boy who magically killed Uther, or won magical glory for defeating those who would think little of him, but his part would be to help Merlin and another person vital to Camelot's survival and the rise of the land of Albion; that time had simply not yet come. However, if he fought, it never would. One way or another, the part he was meant to play, though it was small enough that there might be those who'd never notice the loss, the actual impact, would be gone.

And that was exactly what was about to happen, until the trumpets sounded and Gilli happened to look up into the stands and see the king's ward, the Lady Morgana, accompanied by Prince Arthur's wife, the Princess Freya.

He couldn't believe his eyes: Freya, the_ princess_, was the girl who had returned his ring to him, the girl who had taken such a great risk. He'd promised her he would not fight, and he had no doubts she could see him now, breaking that promise.

What an incredible risk she had taken! Here she was, the daughter-in-law of Uther Pendragon himself, and she had, instead of turning him in, given him back his father's magic ring.

Why would she _do_ that?

Gilli's nerves were frazzled; he was too stunned to fight. Magic would help, but in the state he found he was in, he wouldn't be quick enough to keep himself alive, ring or no ring. So he excused himself from that day's competition, ignoring the sneering and jeering from several of his would-be opponents and made his way back to the inn.

He would come back the next day and try to re-enlist, he decided. It might be allowed, if the competitors had dwindled down to an uneven number and a victor was still unannounced.

Freya took yet another risk, after seeing him leave. She had Merlin take her back to the inn, hooded and disguised once more. She was glad Gilli hadn't fought, but he'd come too close to it. Perhaps if she and Merlin could speak to him again, now that he knew they were both on his side, maybe he would do the right thing and just leave Camelot while he still could. She hated the thought of Uther finding out he had magic and having him burned, hung, or beheaded, possibly right below her own window where she would have a clear, disturbing, and uttering heartbreaking view of the execution.

"Why did you help me?" Gilli demanded, when Freya and Merlin arrived in his room. "Why didn't you turn me in?"

Freya twisted her neck to smile at Merlin. "Because, it could have been _me_, in your place."

"You're a princess, you've never had to fight anyone," Gilli said. "You don't know what it's like. To be smaller than those who would do you harm. To feel like a nobody."

"You might be surprised," said Freya.

"You live with Uther," mulled Gilli, clearly confused, "and yet you sympathize with those who have magic?" He spun his ring round on his finger.

"Gilli..." Freya stretched out her hand. "Please leave Camelot. You can't-"

Because he was wearing the ring, he saw something this time which he had not during their last meeting. There was a Druid mark on her arm! "You're a Druid!"

"I was," she admitted.

"So you _do _know what it's like!"

"It's lonely," she said. "And scary, sometimes... You can't always trust people. You're always running, looking back over your shoulder..."

"So you understand why I have to do this?" Gilli cried. "Why I _have_ to fight?"

"There's no honour in this," Freya insisted. "_None_, Gilli. Please listen. If you killed the king, what would that really accomplish? Killing a king who hates magic with magic is like burning somebody who's afraid of fire. I know you must be better than that. And if you're only in it to fight brutes and thugs and not the king, what good is that?"

"A _lot _of good!" Gilli said, scowling. "I'll be respected! For _once_ in my whole miserable life."

"Magic," growled Merlin, "is a gift. It's not to be used for your own vanity!"

"Do you think I should apologize for how I was born?" he snapped. "Well, I won't."

"You can play hard and fast with your own life," Merlin told him, "but what about her?" He gestured at Freya. "If it ever got out that she gave you back that ring, what do you think Uther would do to her?"

Gilli's hard, stubborn face softened a little.

"She's done you a good turn," he went on, "and you would see her killed if the truth came out; if your plans, which are bad enough on their own, go wrong."

Gilli looked at his ring, then back at Freya. "I always hated my father, just a little bit, for not using this ring to save his own life. I thought he was scared. I thought all magicians who submitted to Uther were fools and cowards, desperate to save only their own skin." He met Freya's eyes, then lowered his own. "I'm sorry. You were brave, Freya, to come and see me; to try and _help_ me. And you, too, Merlin."

"I know it doesn't seem like it now," Merlin said, "but one day the likes of us will be free in Camelot. Magic will be permitted once again."

"_Us_?" Gilli's eyes widened. "You _both_ have magic?"

Merlin chuckled. "Don't tell anybody."

Gilli nodded and flung a few things into a satchel, which he then tossed over his shoulder. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Maybe our paths will cross again," said Freya. "When things are different in Camelot."

"I hope so," said Gilli. "I'd like to see you both again someday."

"You will," said Merlin confidently. "We're kin."

Gilli's eyes landed on Freya's Druid mark again. "Yes. I imagine we are." He shook Merlin's hand.

"Where will you go?" Freya asked him.

"I don't really know," said Gilli.

"You could seek out the Druids," she suggested. "They could not keep me safely, because I'm cursed. They threw me out, for their own good. But, _you_, Gilli, with your magic, they would take you in."

"Maybe I will." It didn't sound like a half-bad idea, actually.

"Be safe," Freya warned. "On the road."

"I will be," he said. "I'm stronger than I look."

"Just don't go around magically tripping bandits unless it's absolutely necessary," Merlin laughed.

"Course not," Gilli jestingly agreed. "Oh, one more thing, though."

"What?"

"Those two thugs I told you about before, Nollar and Tindr? The ones who chased me into the castle? Be careful of them. They like picking on anyone smaller than themselves. And with me going like this, those brutes might be looking for a new victim. They're even more brutal than they seem; I didn't tell you this before, but I had a run-in with them on the road here. They knocked me down and stole my first sword."

"I'll keep my eyes peeled," promised Merlin.

"WHERE HAVE YOU been?" Gaius was standing there, looking worried, when Merlin walked through the door to their living quarters an hour later.

"Nowhere," said Merlin.

"Was Freya with you?"

He sighed, knowing how Gaius would react. "Yes."

"_Merlin_!"

"It was nothing," said Merlin. "We just went to see this young sorcerer about a ring and maybe trying to live with the Druids."

Gaius stared at him in shocked disbelief. "_What_?" The poor man looked like he was about to have a heart attack and fall to the floor right then and there.

"All right, that came out wrong," Merlin realized, wincing. "It's not what it sounds like. See, he...this young boy, with magic...was going to be in the tournament, but I found his ring and gave it to Freya, only it was his father's and he wanted it back. Anyway, he's gone."

"Gone?"

"Left Camelot. Freya talked him into it; I helped, a little."

"And you never thought of letting me in on any of this?" Gaius asked sternly. "You thought it wiser to endanger yourself and Freya?"

"Gaius, there's no danger," Merlin told him. "Not anymore. We took care of it."

Gaius shook his head at him. "You were _lucky_, Merlin, nothing more."

"I'm sorry, Gaius."

"One of these days," Gaius warned him, "that is not going to be good enough. You need to start using your head. Stop charging into these situations and dragging Freya along with you."

Merlin grabbed a jar of polish and started to lift the latch on the door to leave again.

"Where are you going?"

"To polish Arthur's armour and swords."

"When will you be back?"

"Tonight, at supper."

"See you then."

"Gaius?"

"Yes?"

"You're not..." He paused. "..._angry _with me...are you?"

"No, Merlin, I'm not angry," he assured him. "Just anxious."

"Don't be." Merlin smiled at the physician. "Nothing bad is going to happen to me."

Which, really, in pitiful way, goes to show how very little a person (even one with magic) knows about what is going to happen next in their lives.

DOWN IN THE armoury, Merlin went about his chores. He thought a little of Gaius, and Freya, but mostly, for once, his mind was on his work. Things were looking up. Yes, Freya was still married to Arthur, and that was never going to change. And Morgana was still betraying the oblivious king of Camelot, and that seemed highly unlikely to ever change as well. Still, they had saved Gilli, from Uther and from himself. Merlin felt rather proud of that accomplishment; even if, the way he saw it, Freya had done most of the real work; it being, from his adoring perception of matters, her goodness and bravery that moved Gilli to spare himself and her the chopping block more than anything_ he'd_ said.

"Why, if it's not the prince of Camelot!" boom-laughed a mean-spirited voice that went up Merlin's spine with a nasty, metal grinding against metal the wrong way sort of shiver.

Merlin glanced up to see Nollar, followed by Tindr, strolling into the armoury as if they owned the place.

"No," he corrected him, "I'm his servant."

"I've always wanted a servant," said Nollar, stomping his boot on the bench next to Merlin. "Here. Clean them."

"What?"

"My boots. Hurry up."

Gritting his teeth behind closed, tight lips, biting back retorts he was sure this brute did not wish to hear, Merlin got up and walked to the other side of the room.

Immediately, he felt the painful lash of a whip striking his backside.

"I'm looking for a cloth!" Merlin protested, remembering what Gilli had told him. He didn't need these two giving him any trouble.

"I don't care if you use your _tongue_!" shouted Nollar. "Clean 'em."

"Look," Merlin began.

Nollar whipped him again, this time on the waist.

"Ow!"

"Now do as I say," Nollar grunted. "Clean my boots."

He wasn't going to take this! He glared at Nollar. "Clean them yourself."

"Did you hear that, Tindr?"

"I heard it."

"I don't think this fellow likes us much."

"Doesn't have much respect."

"You're right," Merlin snapped. "I don't. I don't respect anyone who goes around and whips people for no reason."

"We'll have to teach him some respect, then, won't we?" They exchanged grins.

Nollar flicked his whip.

This lash landed on Merlin's left thigh. "Stop that."

Nollar dropped the whip.

"Thank you," he grunted.

"You're welcome." He took a step forward and punched him in the face, knocking him down.

Merlin wondered if his nose was broken; enough blood was streaming out of it for it to be.

Nollar reached down and pulled him back up to his feet, then shoved his fist into his stomach, knocking him down again.

He hoped Nollar would leave him alone now that he'd hit him twice, but that was not to be. Instead, Nollar started kicking him. He tried to fight back and defend himself, but then Tindr got in on it and it was two against one. They were both bigger and stronger than he was. He thought of trying to use magic to bring a sword over to him, but his attackers were in too close a proximity. They would see his eyes glow and the sword float to him. And they, greedy thugs that they were, would not keep his secret from the king, once they discovered it.

It went on until Merlin wondered if they _ever_ intended to stop. He couldn't understand how anyone could get such satisfaction out of hurting someone. Every bone in his body ached. On one side of his face, he had a cut lip and three dark, lumpy, purple-black bruises forming on his now swollen cheek and lower jaw. He thought also that he might have a broken rib on that side of his body. His legs smarted terribly, because Nollar had his whip in his hand again and was using it. Stupid as he seemed, he was clever enough to wait a little between lashes so the old pain didn't do much to dull the new he was busy inflicting.

Finally, what felt like hours later (though Merlin was too dizzy and sore and his head had been knocked around a bit too much to be certain), a familiar bellow of, "_Merlin_!" rang through the castle and into the armoury.

He tried to croak out, "Arthur," in hopes of getting some help, but it didn't work; his lips moved, but no sound escaped them.

Arthur went by the armoury without going in.

Thankfully, the moment he returned to his chambers, the prince began ringing his serving bell like there was no tomorrow.

"That _you_ he's calling for, then?" guffawed Tindr.

Merlin blinked; it hurt too much to nod.

Nollar kicked him one last time. "Get on, then."

ARTHUR ROLLED HIS eyes at his servant as he walked in. He didn't realize he was badly injured. What he _did_ realize, though, for he could hardly have missed it, was that Merlin wasn't walking right. In fact, he looked as if he could just barely stand up.

"Merlin," he laughed, "have you been into the cider again?"

Merlin didn't answer, the beat-up side of his face turned away from Arthur because of the angle he was standing at.

"Look at you," Arthur snorted, getting up from where he'd been sitting impatiently, almost breaking another bell. "You're so drunk you can't even stand up straight."

Still, Merlin said nothing.

"Merlin?" He walked over to him, a little concerned now.

Slowly, Merlin turned and Arthur saw the bruises and the cut lip.

"Good _God_, Merlin!" His eyes widened with horror. "What on earth happened to you?"

Unable to stand up any longer, the painful walk all the way from the armoury to Arthur's chambers already having taken too much out of him in his injured state, Merlin collapsed, falling sideways into Arthur's arms.

"Come on," said Arthur, half-carrying, half-dragging his manservant. "We've got to get you to Gaius. _Now_."


	12. The Betrayal Begins

~Chapter twelve: The Betrayal Begins~

ARTHUR BLINKED AT his father, dumbfounded. "That's all?"

"I beg your pardon?" Uther looked a bit puzzled himself, as if he couldn't understand his son's reaction.

"You _did_ hear what I said...?" Arthur felt the need to check, just to be completely certain.

"Of course," said Uther. "And I've responded to it suitably. The rest, I'm afraid, will be in the capable hands of Gaius. There's nothing else I can do."

"Father," said Arthur, slowly, "they beat my servant within an inch of his life. They could have _killed_ him."

"I'm sorry this distresses you, Arthur." Uther sighed and shifted a little in his throne. "And I'm sorry if it will disturb your routine, but you needn't concern yourself any further."

"But, with all due respect," he protested, "you haven't administered justice."

"What are you saying?"

"Shouldn't these two, Nollar and Tindr," he asked, "be punished?"

"I've told you they're banned from competing in the tournament." Uther shrugged. "I admit that maiming a fellow competitor's manservant, especially that of someone such as yourself, Arthur, is bad manners."

"Bad manners?" Arthur repeated, lowering his brow. "It's worse than bad manners, it's barely a step up from attempted murder."

"I understand your concern, and that this is very upsetting for you," said Uther, "but it isn't as if they threatened _your _life."

"I see." Arthur looked momentarily cross. "So Merlin's life is worthless?"

"No, as I think we've discussed before," Uther corrected, a bit impatiently, "it's simply worth _less_ than yours."

"Maybe so," he agreed, begrudgingly, "to Camelot, perhaps, but is that any reason Nollar and Tindr shouldn't be imprisoned? Or at least banished? You haven't even sent them out of Camelot."

"I've warned them not to show up on castle grounds during the tournament, even as spectators," Uther said firmly. "That is enough."

"Father..." Arthur's voice grew tense. "Forgive me, but I can't understand why you're being so lenient."

"He's just a _servant_," Uther said blandly, growing weary, (and very quickly), of the conversation. "If you need someone to attend to your chambers and personal needs while he is recovering, such can be easily arranged. There's nothing for you to worry about."

Arthur shook his head and walked out of the throne room. He understood that Merlin, Tindr, and Nollar were all commoners and, as such, at the bottom of Uther Pendragon's list of priorities, but he still couldn't get over the cold, uncaring way his father brushed off the matter.

Normally, Merlin drove him (Arthur) mad, and when the bumbling idiot got himself into scrapes, he didn't particularly care, seeing as they were his own fault, for being stupid; but this time Merlin had done absolutely nothing wrong, just going about his duties when some thugs decided to beat him senseless. Surely there should be _something_ done about that... It was more than bad manners, more than simply distasteful: it was a _crime_. And Camelot was meant to _protect_ its people from crime. What if it had been a female servant and something worse than a mere beating had occurred? Or what if, even, in a less random scenario, they simply hadn't let Merlin go when Arthur rang the bell for him? Would he have found his manservant dead in the armoury several hours later?

Because he could not get leave from the still-continuing tournament to do so himself, Arthur asked Freya if she would mind terribly, instead of sitting up in the stands, if she was not so keen on seeing the sport after all, going to see Gaius and checking on Merlin.

"You might sit with him for a bit," Arthur encouraged her, feeling guilty that he had not had the chance to go in and see how well his servant was recovering, too busy with training and other duties. "I respect my father's judgement, but I feel badly that those thugs got away with what they did to him. All I can do for him right now is send someone to make sure he doesn't feel that he's completely alone."

Freya was so relieved at Arthur's kindly request that she felt the urge almost to kiss him on the cheek and clasp his hands, thanking him fervently. She did neither, being of an inward, withdrawn nature, but she did smile willingly. She had considered making up a story, to excuse herself from watching what was left of the tournament, but knew Gaius would likely not grant her admittance into his quarters to see Merlin if she did so.

Ever since she'd heard of what happened to him, she had been beside herself with grief and fear.

Gaius had had to tie her up when she was a Bastet and kept Merlin, in his weakened state, away from her. Even though she was calm around him, she was still, when her curse was in effect, a wild animal. As a physician, he felt it unsafe to risk putting an injured man near such a creature. She had been distressed and growled and roared so that Gaius thought he would lose his nerve entirely, but she had not actually broken her bonds, and he released her and sent her on her way when it was over.

But now, as a human, with a real excuse, given to her by her husband, Prince Arthur himself, she could attend to him; she could finally get in to see him.

Merlin, too weak to get out of bed or even lift his head up, felt the corners of his mouth, even though it pulled painfully on the cut on his lip, turn upwards when Freya walked in. He was a bit out of it, thanks to the strong herbs (some of which caused mild delusions) Gaius had had to give him, yet he recognized her at once.

"Merlin!" Freya ran over to the bedside and put her hand in his.

Gaius stood in the doorway, watching them.

"I love you," slurred Merlin, staring up at her with one swollen eye and the other half-closed from exhaustion.

Freya looked anxiously over her shoulder at Gaius, as if dreading his reaction.

"Don't worry, Freya," said Gaius, rolling his eyes, "he doesn't know what he's saying. It's the herbs talking. He loves _everybody_ today." He shook his head. "He's gleefully wished me a happy birthday at least twice already."

"_Is_ it your birthday?" Freya asked, forehead crinkled.

"No," said Gaius. "Not even _close_ to it."

"I see." Freya nodded and turned back to Merlin.

He squeezed her hand, which he was still holding in his own. "I think I've been in love with you since that first day," he mumbled, "since I saw you in that cage."

Gaius grimaced at that. "Though the herbs certainly don't seem to be affecting his long-term memory much overall, do they?" For, regardless of whether he was in his right mind or not, Merlin had, right then, sounded disturbingly sincere and sure of himself.

Freya blushed, but she said nothing further, or in reply.

BACK IN BED well after midnight, Freya slept uneasily.

Perhaps it was her worry over Merlin that made her subconscious fears surface in the form of nightmares, or having been agitated as a bound Bastet earlier might have drained her of the extra mental energy needed to keep bad memories at bay, or else, this time, Merlin's mention of her being in Halig's cage might have stuck in her head for some reason.

Whatever the reason for the unforeseen torment, she found that frightening faces loomed behind her closed eyelids.

There was the man who'd attacked her, whose mother cursed her; his scream of sickly surprise when she accidentally killed him and his life went out of him; his flushed face gone pale so quickly... His mother, her eyes cold and unforgiving; she cared nothing for Freya's protests that it was done unintentionally, that she'd been attacked and was defending herself, nor was she challenged even remotely when the girl ran off in fear, for the curse followed her wherever she would go. She wanted to kill, to make widows of proud mothers? Fine, then, if that was what she desired, she would kill forever more, till her own dying day.

The last face in the dark in her dreams was Halig's. She relived his throwing her into the cage and clapping her wrists in irons. He sneered crudely and made fun of her through the bars; the bounty hunter was proud to have caught such great prey, notwithstanding the fact that he had caught her, not in her monster form, but in that of a helpless, trembling young girl.

His voice, his hands, his heartless eyes, it all seemed so _real_; it was as if she'd gone back through time.

She whimpered, then screamed. Then, still screaming, her eyes shot open and she was back in Arthur's bed, flat on her back, looking up at the canopy.

It was only a dream, nothing more. She lived in Camelot now, part of Uther's family rather than his sworn enemy, so long as he never learned the truth about her past.

Her screaming had woken Arthur, apparently, for he'd grunted, rolled over so that he was turned facing her, and propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at her. "It's all right, Freya, it was just a bad dream, you're _fine_."

She realized she was panting for breath. "I'm sorry..."

"You're shaking," Arthur noted.

"I didn't mean to wake you." She wasn't used to her husband looking after her. Most of the time she made herself scarce, keeping out of his way, and he made precious little effort to grow closer to her, so it was as if they didn't even live in the same chambers, despite the fact that they saw each other every day and were pleasant and cordial in their exchanges.

Nonetheless, there was kindness, even genuine _concern_, in his face. "What did you dream about?"

She shook her head, unable to tell him that.

Arthur lifted a hand up, as if he meant to touch her in some comforting fashion but felt so awkward that he wasn't sure how to go about it. Finally, his fingers moved a lock of dampened hair away from her face.

Freya found herself, just for a moment, wondering if it would be impossible to grow to love this man. He was not the husband of her choice, but he was good to her, and she could see in him the same king Merlin saw: the once and future king who would unite Albion. She could still not see herself properly as his queen, but she wondered if it was so impossible to care for him. She had come, in her quiet way, to _like_ him, certainly, to care about him, to fancy his company more than Uther's, who, regardless of his kindness to her, still unnerved her greatly... But _love_ him? As in romantically? When, even though he'd never said so, she knew he still loved Gwen, never able to grudge him that for she had feelings for another as well that, too, must remain forever unspoken? No, she could not expect, nor ever so much as _hope_ for that. And, in a way, it was for the best; Freya did not want (or, for that matter, _need_) another unfinished love story in her life.

"Here." Arthur put another blanket around Freya's chilled shoulders and, unexpectedly, put his arm around her, holding her close to him.

It was a gift, she knew, this kindness, offered freely and innocently. The touch was hardly a lover's, but that of a friend, or brother's. His arms were warm, and she was cold. He had never held her like this before, and did so now only as a man would embrace an anxious child during a thunderstorm, protectively but passionless.

"Thank you," Freya murmured.

"You're welcome, Freya." After a moment, he added, "You know, I thought... That maybe, if we hadn't been sort of..._nudged_..." (It was the nicest way he could think to say 'forced'.) "...into marriage... Well, maybe we would have got on. If I wasn't a prince and you weren't a lady. We might have been good friends."

"I'm _not_," she whispered, almost inaudibly. She _wasn't_... She wasn't the Lady of Shalott _really_...

"What?"

"Nothing," she said. "Never mind."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Arthur."

When morning dawned and it was time for them to get up, it was Gwen who opened the curtains. Arthur had never said, one way or another, to his father, if he actually _wanted_ a new servant while he was waiting on Merlin's recovery, so, in the meantime, as it was considered reasonably proper since Arthur had a wife who had no real lady's maid of her own anyway, Morgana's serving girl Guinevere could attend to a few small duties in Arthur's chamber during Merlin's absence. Waking the crown prince and princess, lighting the fireplace, heating bathwater, cleaning chamberpots... Little things like that.

Unfortunately, Gwen was not treated to the same sight Merlin had every morning _he_ opened the curtains: of Arthur and Freya on opposite sides of the bed, a gaping space between them on the mattress. Instead, she saw rather a different scene. What she beheld was Prince Arthur of Camelot with his arms clasped round his beautiful, dozing wife, the Princess Freya, formerly of Astolat.

A little sigh escaped Gwen, but she swallowed anything else that might have accompanied that sigh back immediately. It was not proper for her to feel that tiny twinge of jealousy. Freya did not deserve it; she had a good heart and had done nothing to earn her resentment. Arthur had had no choice in who he wed. So it was not his fault, either. What was done was done. If anything, Gwen wanted, above all, to be happy that they were growing to care for each other. She did not want her Arthur, who was not (could never be) _really_ hers, to be miserable.

Alas, jealousy could be reasoned away when you loved the people in question, but sadness, she found, could not.

TIME HEALS ALL wounds, it is said. And while many have found this to be rather a lot of nonsensical malarkey when it comes to emotional inflictions, there is no denying it does wonders for the physical ones at least.

Slowly, but surely, Merlin had recovered from the beating of a lifetime Nollar and Tindr had given him and was back to his old duties as if nothing had ever happened. It was true he looked a bit more wary of big, hulking strangers in tight small places like the armoury, but aside from that he was very much as he had always been.

He resumed also his vigil over Freya while she was a Bastet, and it was an improvement, for she didn't need to be bound when he was present and calming her and she no longer became agitated, the teeth baring and growling back down to a minimum.

There came one fateful evening that, if it had not occurred, perhaps things would have gone on that way, fairly peaceably, for a while longer. Perhaps, if temptation had not been presented that night, just after midnight, alongside a usually absent friend, that is, full-blown opportunity, Merlin would have remained strong in his longtime resolve not to betray Arthur. The words of his delusions back when he'd been under the influence of the healing herbs might have amounted to nothing more than just that, meaningless words, if only that night had not been.

Gaius happened to be away (something to do with herbs and medical supplies and a late shipment), and was not set to return until late the following afternoon of the next day. Although he still worried about Merlin and Freya's feelings for each other, for all his stern warnings, he _did_ trust Merlin, and thought nothing unsafe about leaving them entirely on their own for just that one night.

The weather had grown colder, the nightly walks from Arthur's chamber to the physician's living quarters leaving Freya rubbing her arms with cold. She needed something a bit warmer than her nightgown. So she went to the wardrobe and found a dress to wear before setting off down the corridors. By chance, the dress happened to be the same one they'd found her in; the one Merlin had taken from Morgana what felt like so long ago, back when he was hiding her under the castle, back when he'd wanted to run away with her.

When she arrived just before midnight, Merlin looked up at the lifting latch and saw Freya enter, gilding quickly into the room, smoothly, like a magical being out of some wonderful dream, wearing the dress he'd seen her die in.

She looked like a princess, as always, but not, right then, _Arthur's_ princess. A girl like that belonged to no son of a hater of magic, no mortal prince; she _was_ magic, every step, every small breath that came out of her, was bewitching.

"What's wrong?" Freya looked at him, concerned.

Merlin blinked and shook it off. "Nothing. You..." His voice trailed off, then picked back up again. "You look lovely."

Freya glanced down at her feet.

For a passing second they stood, across the room from one another, not knowing what to say. Then, all at once, Freya remembered that she had to get ready for her transformation into a Bastet; she slipped the dress over her head and draped it across a nearby stool.

Usually, Merlin looked away from her when she was undressed right before her transformation, but that night his eyes were still on her. He lowered his gaze, ashamed and apologetic, and handed her the blanket to cover herself, when he realized she was aware of his eyes lingering on her bare body.

Her time as a Bastet went by as it always did; she initially felt panicked in her new form and Merlin soothed her. Except, when she had turned back into her human self again, the unspoken tension between them returned in tenfold.

Merlin watched her as she slipped the dress back on, and struggled to find something-_anything_-to distract himself.

The only thing he came up with, a forced conversational piece, was that Druid goblet Gaius had; he thought Freya might like to see it, since she saw so little of anything to do with her former kin, and knew where the physician's new hiding place for it was. He could just put it back and pretend it had laid undisturbed when Gaius returned.

Freya admired the beautiful chalice, truly enjoyed looking at it, but perhaps Merlin would have been wiser not to have taken it out at all; for she happened to get thirsty and drank water from it, and Merlin had a few sips also.

Because it was a Druid marriage cup, they almost felt, alone together like that, glinting eyes full of promises and longing, as if they were wedded to each other. It would have saved them more future pain had they drunk their very deaths from the Druid goblet.

They set the goblet aside on the table, and Merlin's arms slipped around Freya. His touch, unlike Arthur's, though equally protective, was indeed that of a lover's as well as that of a friend.

They were under no spell, save the bewitchment of their own feelings rising, they were wholly in control of, and thus responsible _for_, their actions, but they were as dizzy and unthinking as if they had been enchanted.

Merlin planted a kiss on Freya's lips and she returned it unhesitatingly. He gently tightened his grasp, now of her waist, and pulled her closer. She kissed him again; their locked lips parted, opening, allowing their tongues to meet.

They broke apart. "Freya, I..." he murmured.

She reached up and touched his face. "I love you, too."

"You do?" In spite of everything, he could not keep the faintest hint of (almost _comical_) hopeful surprise out of his tone. "Really?"

She might have giggled at his mild shock, as if their feelings were (from each other, anyway) ever such a great secret to begin with, but she didn't feel like giggling. Instead, she took his hand and brought it affectionately to her lips, kissing his trembling knuckles.

Merlin bent over their linked hands and tenderly kissed the Druid mark on her arm. Usually, she had to pretend it wasn't there; with_ him_, though, it was part of who she had been and still was. It was the real Freya, curse and all, that he loved, not the dead nobleman's daughter she was forced to play the part of.

His lips pressed against her forehead next. Then he scooped her up into his arms, carrying her as he had when she'd been dying. She tenderly caressed and kissed his neck and lower jaw.

"Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"Don't let go of me."

"I won't." He carried her into his room and managed to shut the door behind them without putting her down or letting go of her.

He lowered her down onto the bed, easing down with her. Even then, lost in his emotions, he was still in semi-ignorance of what he was doing, the mistake he (they _both_) were about to make.

Freya felt the same. She didn't think of Arthur; if she had, she might have stopped while she was ahead. But she and Merlin had found and slipped into, rather unwillingly to their conscious selves that knew better, a world of their own where, in their eyes, there _was_ no Arthur or Uther or Camelot or Albion, only the two of them.

They resumed kissing. Freya's hands went behind Merlin's neck to untie his scarf. She ran her fingers along the back of his neck. One of his hands pulled the sleeve of her dress down, leaving one of her shoulders bare, which he kissed, sighing softly. That was when Freya's hand went over his other hand and guided it down from where it rested at her waist to where he could feel the upper part of thigh through the skirt of the dress.

She moaned lightly and Merlin's forehead touched hers, resting against it briefly.

Freya felt something wet on her skin and realized something. "You're crying."

Even in the darkness of the room, he fancied she could still see him blush. "I'm sorry..."

"Merlin, you have nothing to be sorry for," she said, reaching up and wiping his tears away with the side of her wrists.

That was when what was beginning to happen slowly dawned on him. "Freya, I've never..."

She smiled and, understanding also, craning her neck upwards, kissed him full on the mouth, pulling him further into the middle of the bed with her.

Holding her, feeling her so intently pressed against him, Merlin whisper-asked, "Freya?"

"Yes?"

"How do you feel?" He couldn't read _her _mind, but as for himself, he felt like his stomach was doing back-flips; his heart was racing like a hummingbird's.

Freya gazed into his face, half-hidden by the shadows of the room. Her answer was only one word, but it summed up everything between them so perfectly. It was the only thing the both of them had longed to feel all along. "Loved."

"Oh, Freya..."

GAIUS NODDED TO the guards as he walked through one of the side entrances of the castle. If they were at all chaffed at his coming back so much earlier than expected, and at such a late hour, they said nothing about it to him. Most likely, they were indifferent; they had to stand there, as long as they were on nighttime duty, no matter which servants came in and out, so it probably mattered not at all to them.

Gaius could have gotten a room at an inn, he supposed, but he'd been so close to home it seemed a waste. He would rather sleep in his own quarters than in a strange room built over a tavern, given the choice. He assumed Merlin would already be asleep, as would the rest of the castle, so he lifted the latch quietly.

"What on earth is that doing out?" His eyes widened at the sight of his and Alice's Druid-made goblet out on the table. "What was that boy thinking?" He made a mental note not to, under any circumstances, allow Merlin to know where he hid it next. He was sure he hadn't meant any harm, but leaving it out like that was _extremely_ careless. The last thing he needed was Uther, or anyone who would _tell_ Uther, finding out he had kept that.

Sighing, Gaius began to ease down onto a chair he pulled out for himself, when he thought he heard a strange sound; sort of like grunting and moaning. This noise seemed to be coming from Merlin's room.

"Merlin?" Gaius called, speaking up so he'd hear him through the door. "Are you all right?"

Inside the room, Merlin disentangled himself from Freya and stuck his head out from under the blankets on the bed.

"I thought he wasn't coming back until tomorrow," whispered Freya, anxiously running her fingers through her disheveled hair, sitting up beside him.

"So did I," Merlin whisper-replied, closing his eyes and wincing. This was _definitely_ not a good time for Gaius to return early.

"Merlin?" he called again.

"Yes, Gaius?" He arched an eyebrow at Freya and put his index finger to his lips, signaling for her to keep quiet.

"Are you all right?" he repeated.

"I'm fine..." He glanced at Freya, then back at the door. "Really."

"Are you sure? It sounded like you were dying in there."

"No, I'm fine. Definitely not dying. Just getting some sleep."

"All right," said Gaius, shrugging on his side of the door. "See you in the morning."

"There's only one thing for it," Merlin whispered to Freya; "I have to sneak you out of here before he wakes up tomorrow. You can't go past him now; he'll see you."

Freya nodded.

"We can try to get some sleep till then."

Merlin, when he finally fell asleep, with Freya in his arms and her head leaned back on his shoulder, had a strange dream.

In this dream, he and Freya were walking through the forest when they came across a unicorn. The unicorn regarded himself and Freya, even whinnying in their direction, but it turned and spurned them, rather than approaching them or allowing them to come near him. That was when Anhora, Keeper of the Unicorns, appeared.

Freya was suddenly gone, vanished without explanation (which is so often the way of dreams), leaving just Merlin behind to talk to Anhora.

"Why did the unicorn run away from us?" Merlin heard himself ask.

Anhora turned his head and looked at him. "You know why."

"No." Merlin shook his head. "I _don't_, actually."

"The unicorn does not keep company with anyone impure," said Anhora.

"Impure?" repeated Merlin. "I don't understand."

"You _betrayed _someone, a friend," Anhora told him. "And gave away a part of yourself you can never have back. You are not a bad warlock, certainly not lacking in power, if that means anything, but you're no longer innocent enough for the likes of a unicorn's admiration."

"What I did," Merlin said, looking down, "it wasn't right, was it?"

Anhora gave no answer, either to justify what he'd done, on the grounds of true love, nor to condemn him as the unicorn evidently had, on the grounds of disloyalty.

When Merlin woke from his dream, he found sunlight had already filled the room. They'd over-slept. So much for sneaking her out early...

It was so odd, the way he felt, waking up with Freya in his arms.

On the one hand, Merlin had never been so happy in his life, while, on the other, he had never felt so guilty and miserable.

Freya was Arthur's _wife_...

What had he _done_?

But before he had time to dwell on his guilt and see where it took him, Merlin heard the door opening and flinched, aware, in the one split-second he had to prepare himself, of what was inevitably coming.

"Merlin, you're going to be late!" Gaius stuck his head into the room. He stopped in his tracks, taking in what he could hardly have missed even if he'd been half-_blind_.

Merlin was not alone; Freya was in the bed with him, wearing his nightshirt. Merlin didn't appear to be wearing anything except for the blankets that covered him. Their clothes (including Freya's dress, which was currently in a rather pitiful, wrinkled state) were in a haphazard pile on the floor at the bedside. Gaius wasn't an idiot; he knew now what they had been doing in his absence.

Freya squirmed out of Merlin's arms and buried her face in her hands. She couldn't stand the horror-stricken, disappointed way Gaius was looking at them.

"Gaius, I... We-" Merlin began, though he knew there was nothing he could say to explain it away.

"Get dressed," said Gaius coldly, shaking his head and slowly backing out of Merlin's room.


	13. Of Secrets and Guilt

~Chapter thirteen: Of Secrets and Guilt~

MERLIN AND FREYA walked single-file out of Merlin's room, eyes downcast.

Gaius didn't look up at them as Freya came first, back in her wrinkled dress, its skirt partly knotted up on one side so she could walk down the steps without lifting it, followed by Merlin. The physician kept his eyes on the porridge he was preparing.

"Gaius," said Merlin, finally breaking the awkward silence, "say something. Please."

"What is there to be said?" Gaius replied distantly.

"I know you're angry," he started, "but-"

"Oh, I'm more than merely _angry_, Merlin," said Gaius to the pot he was stirring. "I'm hurt; disappointed, horrified, disgusted... You can take your pick. I passed _angry_ a good while back."

"We didn't mean for this to happen," Merlin protested.

"That's just it," sighed Gaius, hollowly, "I think you _did_. First real opportunity you've had, and this is what I come back to."

Merlin paled. "How can you think that? You know me better than that."

"I thought I did," he said. "You really and truly had me fooled, Merlin. I cannot, for the life of me, decide whether I want to box your ears for doing something so incredibly _stupid_, or shake your hand and tell you to take a bow for being such a good actor."

"I never _acted_," Merlin said, shaking his head. "_Never_, Gaius. I'm the same person you've known all along."

"No, you most certainly are not," Gaius told him flat-out. "I don't like the influence Freya's had on you. I don't like what she's done to you. Honestly, I don't know what it is about her that causes you to lose all sense and reason, and to lie, betray, and deceive whenever she comes into the picture, but it saddens me. It saddens me more than I can say."

"Don't talk about her like that!" Merlin's ashamed, apologetic expression changed into a glare. How could Gaius speak of Freya as if she wasn't even there, standing right beside him? How could he be so heartless? Yes, what they had done wasn't right, but he wasn't about apologize for caring about-for wanting to _protect_-Freya too much! For what he'd done, yes, he was sorry, especially for the way they had gone about it; but he was not sorry for wanting to look after her. "_Freya_ has done nothing wrong."

"No, Merlin," said Freya, injecting softly into the conversation. "He's right."

"No, he isn't."

Freya bit her lower lip. "It's all my fault. You had...have...a duty to your prince, the once and future king...to Arthur... You have a good life here and a destiny to fulfill, and I'm ruining it."

"No, Freya, don't say that!" he blurted, unhesitatingly. "That is _not _true."

She blinked back tears, smiled shakily, and bit her lower lip. "Of course it is. I'm cursed. No matter what we do, no matter how you try to stop it, to make it bearable for both of us, no matter what form I'm in, I'm always a danger to someone I care about."

"No..." Merlin shook his head vehemently. "That's not how it works, Freya, please don't think that."

"I can't help it," she said, walking to the door. "Because it's the truth."

"Freya, _wait_!"

"No, Merlin," snapped Gaius, "let her go. No doubt everybody's out looking for her by now. The least she can do is put the guards' mind to rest so they can get back to their actual duties."

Merlin watched, through eyes half-blinded by tears he struggled to hold back, as she lifted the latch and vanished into the corridor. "Gaius, I understand you're upset by what happened last night, but that doesn't mean-"

"No, you understand _nothing_," he growled. "_Nothing_. I don't think you even realize the full extent of what you have done. You betrayed _Arthur_, first and foremost."

"Arthur doesn't love her!" Merlin exclaimed. "He never has. And you know what? He probably never _will_."

"Are you seriously trying to _justify_ committing adultery with the crown prince's _wife_?" His eyes widened in disbelief.

"No, you've got this wrong, it's..." Merlin didn't know how to explain it. He knew it wasn't right, but he _loved_ her; he loved her so _much_... And Arthur just..._didn't_... It wasn't fair!

"Secondly, Merlin, you betrayed _me_," Gaius told him. "I _trusted _you. You asked for my trust, I granted it, and you betrayed that trust."

"Gaius..."

"Was giving yourself momentary satisfaction more important to you than keeping your word to me?"

"This wasn't about keeping my word... I never thought..."

"No, that's precisely the problem! You never thought!"

Merlin knew he shouldn't say what he thought to say next; he knew it from the moment those words popped into his head. Only, he couldn't stop thinking about how Gaius had just spoken to Freya, and that mentally egged him on a bit. "You're the one who wouldn't let me leave Camelot with her when I had the chance." He knew that wasn't strictly true, that his own knowledge of Freya's personality, of the fact that she would never go with him, willingly letting him toss aside his life here in Camelot, had had a hand in preventing that as well; he was just scared, hurt, defensive, and in need of somebody to blame. And here was Gaius, putting himself out there so readily as a target for confused, misplaced anger.

"How dare you!" cried Gaius. "How _dare_ you try to push the blame for something like this onto _me_."

"I'm sorry," Merlin amended immediately, feeling horrid as soon as the words died on his lips. "I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did." Gaius went over to the window and, leaning on his hands, rested his weight against the sill. "Tell me, Merlin, exactly what good did you imagine would come out of this?"

"I didn't; I _told_ you."

"Do you know what will happen if anyone...?" His throat closed. Hurt though he was, Gaius still cared deeply for Merlin, as if he were his own son, and he couldn't stand the thought of him being burned or hanged as a traitor. All this time, hiding his magic to protect him from that very fate... And for _what_?

"You aren't..."

"Going to tell Uther?" Gaius snorted indignantly. "Of course not. Just because you disappointed me doesn't mean I want to see you _dead_."

"Freya won't say anything," Merlin told him. "I know she won't."

"And so this becomes another secret," said Gaius, quite bitterly. "Yet another thing that could be used against you in the wrong hands."

Merlin closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"At least tell me you had enough sense," Gaius said, almost pleadingly, turning to face him again, "to use the herbs that prevent pregnancy."

Merlin's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "There are herbs that prevent that?"

Gaius willed himself not to scream. "And here is yet another reason you and Freya should never have been intimate." He groaned and reached up to rub the middle of his forehead with his wrist and lower palm. "You're both _idiots_."

UPON HER RETURN to Arthur's chambers, Freya found everything dead-quiet, almost as if the place had been deserted. She felt, as a matter of fact, a little like a ghost; wraith-like and unreal.

The fire was not lit, nothing but cold, burnt-out embers and a charred pile of gray ashes, in the fireplace.

Unknotting the skirt of her dress so that it fell back down to her ankles and brushed softly against the top of her feet once more, Freya crouched down and, with her own two hands (what did she need of servants now, when she had had the undivided attentions of one last night? She could do this much on her own; propriety, contrary to popular opinion, was apparently not a barrier for a Druid waif in the pathetic guise of a princess and noble wife after all), restarted the fire. It burned just a very little, not bright or warmly, only a few sparks of flickering flame.

Freya took off her dress; stepping out of it, rather than pulling it over her head as she usually did. Then she picked up the dress and tossed it into the fire. Perhaps, this time, it would actually burn.

As it happened, it did not. It met the flames, but it put them out more than it was actually _devoured_ by them.

In a strange way, Freya was not unhappy the dress didn't perish after all. But she did nothing to lift it up out of the thin, softly curling wisps of smoke and chalky ashes that were, no doubt, clinging to it now. Instead, she rose up, naked, and got into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin and resting her head on a pillow. She fought back a sniffle.

She wanted to cry but would not allow herself the luxury.

What right did she have to weep? She had everything. But she _hated_ herself. She hated herself for everything she took; she'd always felt like a monster, and now she felt like a parasite, too, living off of what wasn't hers to take. She had no right to the life she was living now, and even _less _right to ruin _Merlin's_ life while she was at it. That was what she had stayed to protect. If she hadn't cared about him, hadn't loved him, hadn't felt so strongly about his destiny, she could have run away with him; and for selfish reasons (she knew he could look after her devotedly, that nothing would ever harm her except over his dead body as long as he was her guardian), at that.

But she _did_ love him, and Gaius was right; she was ruining him, turning him into someone he was not, someone he had never been before.

Freya wasn't sure how long she had been lying there, numb as anything, when the chamber doors crashed open and Arthur stormed in. Filled with a queer mix of quiet apathy and burning guilt, she didn't even bother lifting her head to acknowledge his presence.

"Freya!"

She sighed, and sat up, pulling the blankets and silken comforter up with her to keep herself covered when she suddenly remembered she had forgotten to put anything on after throwing the dress on the fire.

Arthur noticed the crumpled dress in the fireplace, arched his brow, then looked back at her. "_Where_ have you been?"

She tried to think of an excuse, but none was forthcoming, and even if one _had_ been, she found she couldn't speak; her throat was dry, and it hurt.

"Freya, the entire royal guard was out looking for you," Arthur snapped. "Do you know that?"

She managed a bleary-eyed blink.

He cocked his head at her, trying to figure her out. "Are you ill?"

She shook her head.

Arthur sucked his teeth in frustration, inhaling deeply. "I don't have time for this."

"Leave me," blurted Freya, finally finding her voice (it was feeble, a trickle of quivering sound squeaking its way out of her throat and past her lips). She lay back down, curled, under the covers, in a fetal position. "Please."

Arthur must have complied with her request, for she closed her eyes to the sound of his fading footsteps and listened as the prince's chambers fell back into absolute silence.

For several hours, Freya didn't move, just rested there, living only in an inward place deep inside of herself, a quiet place where she couldn't hurt anybody.

"Freya..." A gentle touch moved her hair away from her face. It was a touch she knew straightaway as Merlin's.

She opened her eyes and saw him standing over her.

Merlin had come in to clean and, seeing her lying there, had found any excuse he could to linger, in hopes that he would still be there when she decided to get up. But then, as time ticked away, he'd approached the bedside; he would be expected elsewhere soon, (a servant's work was never done), but he couldn't leave her like this.

"You've been sleeping a long time," he told her.

"Why are you so worried about me?" she murmured. "I don't _deserve_ your concern."

"Of course you do," Merlin insisted. "Besides, I can't help it."

"Merlin, what Gaius said..."

"Bother what Gaius said!"

"He-"

"What he said had _nothing_ to do with you," he stated. "_I _let him down. He was upset."

"Upset, yes," Freya agreed quietly. "But not wrong."

"You know, being cursed..." Merlin's face scrunched up into a thoughtful expression. "...It doesn't mean everyone you come into contact with is a doomed victim. It doesn't make you incapable of loving someone and not hurting them."

"I feel so tired," she whispered, her eyes shutting halfway.

"Then you should get up. Get dressed. Eat something." Merlin went over to the wardrobe and pulled out a dress, putting it at the foot of the bed for her. "You'll feel better then."

"I hate this, Merlin." A whimper escaped her. What was the good in loving someone, in giving yourself to them completely-mind, body, and soul-when you had to pretend it never happened? When if anyone ever found out, everything would fall apart for that one you cared about so much it was almost shameful? When it could never, _ever_ happen again, shouldn't have even happened the first time, and you _knew_ it?

"I know," he assured her. "I feel the same."

Freya got up and, taking the dress, went behind the changing-screen. "Was Arthur angry that you weren't here to wake him?"

"Well, I _was_ in the stocks for an hour, being pelted with fruit, but as it was only for the one hour, I'm guessing he's not any more enraged at my morning absence than usual." Merlin shrugged. "What about you?"

"He said the guards were all out looking for me." Freya sighed.

"Does it seem strange to you?"

"What?"

"You, behind the screen; me over here, having to more or less shout across the room to talk to you... After what happened?"

Freya fought back a tiny smile. Leave it to him to make her want to grin and blush when she was completely miserable. "A little. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

"It _is_ a little strange," Freya admitted. "Being behind here like you haven't already seen everything."

It was Merlin's turn to blush.

"Does anyone suspect?" Her tone was serious and despairing again. After all, she realized that the fact that they were _both_ missing that morning was possible cause for suspicion on its own.

"No," said Merlin, truthfully. "I don't think so."

"Good." If he ever had to face punishment (something worse than merely being in the stocks, something given as a traitor's sentence) for love of her, Freya swore she would never forgive herself.

THERE WERE FEW views in Camelot that were as full of Gothic and mythical beauty as the indoor terrace that overlooked the grand, stone-and-glass pillared hall below. Morgana knew this. Behind her, there was a circular window of stained glass that sparkled in sunlight like rainbow crystals and in moonlight like red, blue, purple, and yellow puddles mixed with the clear white of the mirror-like moonbeams that lit them.

As a child, Morgana had played in the hall below, had hidden on this very terrace, which assisted her in winning a game of hide-and-seek against Arthur. (He'd sourly claimed afterward that they'd both agreed that the other levels in the hall were off-limits and she had thus cheated, but Morgana had never acknowledged this; the way she saw it, she had won and that was that).

She wasn't there now to play, however. She was waiting for Morgause. It was the darkest hour before the dawn, the one easiest for someone to sneak in or out of the castle by, and nobody else had business in this hall for many hours yet.

"Sister," said Morgause, appearing at her right, pulling back the hood of her pale lavender velvet cloak. "You wished to see me."

"We spoke," said Morgana, "a week ago, when I told you the healing bracelet you gave me stopped working; that the nightmares returned."

Morgause nodded. "Yes."

"My dream told me that Uther was my father," Morgana continued. "That he's been lying to me all this time. You told me to do nothing rash and simply acknowledge it, and that the bracelet would soon begin to protect me again."

"And didn't it?" Morgause asked. "After all, it is for the best. Being his daughter, you have a legitimate claim to his throne."

"The dreams came back," Morgana told her, swallowing and inhaling deeply. "The night before last."

"Dreams of Uther?"

Morgana shook her head, looking momentarily puzzled. "No, that's just it. They're not of Uther at all."

"Arthur, then?"

"In a way."

Morgause furrowed her brow. "I'm afraid, Sister, I don't quite follow you."

"They're more of Freya."

"Freya?" echoed Morgause. "The Druid who styles herself as a princess?"

"Yes, that's her." Morgana rolled her eyes.

"The one you thought was your friend."

"She's no friend to magic," snorted Morgana. "I believe she would rip her connection to it out of her soul if she could. She loves pretending far too much."

"Loves Arthur as well, I expect?"

"No, not at all. At least, not that she's shown." Morgana pressed her palms against the white-gold, almost _lace_-like, filigree railing, leaning on her arms. "And Arthur is the same."

"What did you dream in regards to her?"

"There's a coronation." Morgana's nose wrinkled in disgust. "_Arthur's_ coronation."

"Go on."

"Freya is crowned _queen._" She almost choked on the emphasized word. "At Arthur's side."

"Not strange," began Morgause. "She _is_ his-"

Morgana looked at her sister with an air of mild impatience, as if silently urging her to listen a little longer, for that was not the curious part of the dream; she was not yet_ to_ that bit. "After the ceremony, she leaves Arthur's side and, once alone, runs into _Merlin's_ arms."

Morgause's eyes widened. "_Merlin_? You can't mean Arthur's pitiful serving-boy. The one who poisoned you and somehow escaped my magic chains?"

"No," snorted Morgana, "that is exactly who I mean. There is only _one_ Merlin here, thank God. Sometimes I think he really is a thorn in my side. He only keeps his mouth shut because I've threatened to tell Uther that he poisoned me."

Morgause considered this. "And you've had this dream twice?"

"Yes," she said, "two nights in a row."

"The first night you had this dream," Morgause asked, "did anything usual happen?"

"Freya was missing the morning after," Morgana told her, after thinking it over for a moment. "Merlin, too, at first, come to think of it. Uther had his guards out looking for Freya, though, and no one bothered about _him_."

"You say they were both missing," pressed Morgause. "You're sure of this?"

Morgana nodded. "Yes."

"And how was Freya found?"

"She _wasn't_, really," Morgana explained. "At least, not by the guards. Arthur told me himself that he simply walked into his chambers and found her in bed, wanting nothing but to be left alone. He thought she might be ill, but she claimed to be fine."

"She seemed distressed? Anxious?"

"Yes, Arthur seemed to find her so."

Morgause smiled. "Guilty, perhaps?"

Morgana caught on. "You don't think...?"

"Yes, Sister, I most certainly do."

"Her and _Merlin_?" Morgana couldn't help laughing. "It's a bit preposterous. Even if she isn't really the Lady of Shalott."

"_Is_ it?" Morgause arched a fair eyebrow. "You told me, Morgana, that he was close to her. They planned your poisoning together, for one. And wasn't part of your threat to keep him silent based on selling out Freya, too?"

"It was," Morgana admitted. "But, then, he's intensely loyal to his friends."

"Some more than others?" asked Morgause pointedly. "Perhaps one who has become... _More_ than a mere friend?"

"You think they've been...?"

She nodded.

"I see."

"Perhaps that first night you had the dream of Arthur's coronation."

"Would he be so bold?"

"He refused to tell me what it is he sticks so closely to the king for," Morgause mused, "when I asked him. He _knew_, but he would not tell me. Could it have something to do with his feelings for Arthur's wife?"

"In part, I suppose it could," Morgana realized.

"This is good."

"How?"

"We can use this," said Morgause. "Arthur doesn't know that his servant may very well be fornicating with his wife behind his back. There might just be a way, if we can think of it, to work this into our plan to put you on the throne of Camelot."

"Arthur won't be too hurt by Freya," said Morgana, beginning to smirk, "but he will never forgive Merlin for making him look the fool. Arthur is strangely fond of the boy. He was positively_ livid _when Uther didn't punish those thugs who beat him a while back to his satisfaction. He's never _said_ so, but I believe he trusts him. Why else would he never seek to hire an actual lady-in-waiting for Freya? He believes Merlin would do nothing to bring him to shame. He's ignorant of Merlin's _friendship _with Freya, let alone anything else."

"Our poor little prince," sighed Morgause, mockingly. "He's terribly unfortunate, to be surrounded by such deceit. His father, lying about his having a sister all this time. His servant and wife, lying about... Well, goodness only knows the details."

"Yes, poor Arthur," simpered Morgana, taking her hands off the railing. "He thinks he has so many loyal friends here in Uther's castle. As did I, once before. But, alas, we were _both_ wrong."


	14. To Run or Not To Run

~Chapter fourteen: To Run or Not To Run~

FREYA WALKED THROUGH the castle passageways tiredly. She was growing to hate the stone walls that surrounded her. Day after day, nothing changed. It was supposed to be grand, living in a castle, especially one like the great court of Camelot, but it seemed to her that people never mentioned how gloomy castles could be. She longed for the lapping waves, uncultivated wild flowers, and heavenly light of her childhood.

Her one pleasure, of seeing Merlin each day, was barely even there anymore. She saw him when she was a Bastet, but Gaius kept a sharper eye than before, (as she supposed he had a right to do, all things considered), and he sent her back to Arthur's chambers the very _minute _she was human again. And, while she saw him in the mornings, and when he was busy doing chores for Arthur, he rarely had any opportunity to speak to her at those moments. Somehow or other, any chores that would have allowed him a chance to have something resembling an actual conversation with her all ended up being scheduled at such times when she was not present in Arthur's chambers or else Arthur was there, too, and would think it odd if they (princess and servant) conversed like old friends.

Although she tried not to let it show, Freya felt despondent from her growing loneliness. Her husband could not love her, and her lover needed to be protected from her. She had taken to carrying a fur muff when she went for her walks, not, as everyone else in the castle no doubt imagined, so that she could keep her hands warm if she decided to venture out into the courtyard and stroll atop the paved, frozen cobblestone, but so that she could carry Merlin's glass rose about with her without anyone seeing it. If she could never again have him, then she could at least have something he had given her. It was one of the few things she had left to cling to; one of the small memories that helped her bear in mind that, in another life, things would have been different. And in that other life (an alternate Camelot where Druids and warlocks didn't have to hide what they really were), which she fancied she could just graze the side of her mind against, letting it stroke her imagination ever so lightly, they would have been happy, her and Merlin.

With time, even Uther had sensed something was amiss and asked Arthur if he and Freya had, by any chance, rowed. And Arthur had replied not that he knew of (Freya was too quiet to row with anyway, she didn't argue or talk back enough for a proper fight to ensue). When Uther next asked if it was possible Freya was with child, since pregnancy could make a woman moody, Arthur had assured him that wasn't the case either.

It was quite impossible, he assumed, though he didn't explain _this_ part to his father, because they had never been together in that way. There was no chance Freya could have a child.

In actuality, though, unbeknownst to Arthur, Freya _could_ have had one. In theory, anyway. Not Arthur's, of course (the child, had it been conceived, would have been Merlin's), as he had never touched her, but a child all the same. However, since no child _was _in fact growing inside her, her saddened moods and changes in appetite from time to time due only to loneliness and guilt she was forbidden from ever expressing, this did not really matter.

When Freya returned to Arthur's chambers, she saw that he was sitting at the table, speaking to Morgana, who had evidently come to pay him a visit.

It was terrible how Arthur had no idea, not even the slightest suspicion or inclination, that Morgana would see his father's throne taken from him, Camelot fall, his own future kingship never come to pass, and the entire kingdom re-built only on her own whims and misplaced desire to improve on Uther's wrongs. Uther had done badly, in many things, but Morgana's low way, full of blackmail and deceit, was not how to go about it. Yes, Freya knew she was not blameless in betraying Arthur, in letting her heart and what she really wanted get the better of her, but at least _she_ had never coveted his throne. Loved his servant, wrongly, foolishly, hopelessly? Yes. Wished to take something that meant the world to Arthur, something he'd been groomed for his whole life, and rip it from his grasp in some dreadful, underhand fashion? Consorted with his father's enemies, clearly bearing some ill-intent for Camelot? No. _Never_.

Poor Arthur. To him, Morgana was just an old friend he grew up with, bickered with frequently, and had rescued from magical kidnappers not too long ago.

A mad idea came to Freya, then. Perhaps she could reason with Arthur about Morgana. If she could only find some way of convincing him that what she said was the truth, then she could follow it up with a plea for his protection over Merlin. She could _tell_ him Morgana threatened him with blackmail! That would take some of the wind out of her sails; because, then, Arthur could think of a way to speak up for his servant when Uther turned on him...

Oh, but how would she explain Merlin's poisoning Morgana in the first place? And her own involvement?

Her own involvement...

What if she _lied_? What if she told everyone that she _ordered_ Merlin to poison Morgana, against his will? Could she make them believe her?

Uther would be quicker to defend his daughter-in-law than a servant. But if she confessed openly, in front of other nobles... Or even simply took full credit for the poisoning in her conversation with _Arthur_... No, no, that wouldn't work. Arthur would need to know the truth, about her and Merlin _both_ poisoning Morgana because Morgause was using her to put everybody in Camelot to sleep.

If the prince thought his wife to be a traitor, how much weight would he put, really, into what she had to say about Morgana's true nature?

Morgana would, if push came to shove, surely keep the other part of her threat to Merlin, telling Uther Arthur's wife was a Druid, but Freya didn't particularly care about that.

If she could find some way to leave Merlin out of it, to make it seem as if the poisoning was not something they conspired on together, but, rather, something she came up with on her own and _forced_ Merlin into...

Would they believe her, she wondered, if she told them she'd used magic to enchant him into poisoning Morgana?

If so, she could use Uther's hatred of magic in her favor for once. He would be so angry with her, for lying about being a Druid, for casting _any_ enchantment in the first place, and for poisoning Morgana, that he mightn't even give Merlin, a mere servant used as a vessel by a traitorous witch, a second thought.

Of course, Merlin would never forgive her for sacrificing herself. For it would, undoubtedly, mean her execution. Only, she couldn't live like this anymore! She didn't _want_ to die, but she couldn't take living as Arthur's wife, silent and meek, unable to warn the rulers of Camelot that there was a traitor in their midst.

After all, who knew when Morgana would act?

And after _she_ was blamed for the poisoning, Morgana would have nothing left to use to hold Merlin back from telling the truth.

If only she could be sure of Arthur's believing him then...

What mattered most was that Arthur deserved to know. Everyone was against him, even she herself being far from innocent, but_ this_ much loyalty, maybe-just _maybe_-she could give him.

She waited until Morgana smiled, greeted her in a courtly fashion, and prepared to leave. Then, slowly, fingering the sides of the table, Freya approached Arthur, ready to tell, she wasn't even sure _which_ version of the truth, of the secrets being kept from him.

Morgana exited the room, and Freya let out a long, shaky breath. "Arthur, there's something I must tell you."

"What do you need, Freya?" he asked, surprised by her tone, and by the fact that she appeared to actually be working up to a conversation that involved something beyond their usual, polite yet vague, daily exchanges.

"It's about..." She glanced over her shoulder, as if to be sure the king's ward was really gone. "It's about Morgana."

"Oh?" Arthur was attentive enough, but not particularly concerned. "What about her?"

"Arthur, she's-" began Freya.

But, unfortunately, Morgana had waited at the door, and, sensing Freya meant to tell Arthur something she didn't wish him or Uther to know, slipped quickly back into the room.

"Ah." Arthur looked up. "We were just talking about you, Morgana. Forget something in here, did you? Or did you simply grow to miss my company that quickly?"

"I think I dropped an earring," Morgana invented, not skipping a beat, sounding so completely and thoroughly sincere that Freya thought she would almost believe her excuse herself, weak though it was, if she didn't know better. "Under the table." Indeed, loaning credibility to her story was the fact that she had had the good sense to remove one earring before re-entering. "Don't flatter yourself, Arthur." She bent down under the table and pretended to look for her earring. Coming back up, she locked her eyes on Freya. "Freya, would you mind terribly coming with me to my chambers? I need an opinion on which dress to wear to the feast Uther's giving tomorrow night. I've narrowed it down to three. Gwen likes the blue one best, but I've not yet made up my mind."

"Go on," Arthur said dismissively. "We can talk later, if you want."

Freya swallowed hard. She had hoped Arthur would, concerned about how she had begun their conversation, insist she stay, rather than go with Morgana. She felt a little stupid for her hope; she ought to have known him better than that. As long as he trusted Morgana, he would think nothing of such things. And she was fairly sure Morgana was aware of what she'd been about to try to do.

Grimly, she followed Morgana down the corridors until they reached her chambers.

"I know what you're up to," said Morgana, once they were behind closed doors and she had made sure Gwen was not within. "I know what you mean to tell Arthur."

Freya edged away from her, taking a few (rather pointless) steps backwards.

"You of all people should know better than to take his side," Morgana told her. "Those loyal to me will have nothing to fear, when things around here change. But, you..." She looked down at the mark on Freya's arm. "You will always be in danger under Uther's rein. Do you really imagine Arthur's will be any different?"

"Arthur," said Freya softly, "is not his father."

Morgana shrugged. "But he is more like him than you think."

_No, he is _less _like him than _you've_ come to think..._ Freya shook her head. Was this Morgause's doing? Morgana's new belief that Arthur was merely another Uther in the making? Hadn't the king's ward, even in the smallest of measurements, believed her _friend_ Prince Arthur was his own person? Where was the girl who'd believed that _now_? Or was it mere, badly justified, longing for the feel of gold encircling her brow? For queenship. Or did she simply want to make her sister proud?_ Both_?

"If you were on my side, and Morgause's," Morgana went on, "we could protect you. It would be fair enough penance for trying to poison me, supporting us now. You would keep your life, and live as a free subject."

"You're so bitter," Freya said, closing her eyes. "You're so blinded by hatred that you can't see..."

"_Blinded_?" cried Morgana, as if outraged. "Do you think, Freya, that the likes of you and me deserve to be executed because of who we are? For nothing more than how we were born?"

"You of all people could change Uther's mind." Freya opened her eyes again. "But not like _this_. Your way could result in death. Endless killings... It's a terrible thing to kill. I wonder how deeply you realized this when you entered into your pact with Morgause. If you would consider another way..."

"There_ is_ no other way," insisted Morgana. "And you are either with me or against me."

"I will _never_ support you in this."

"Think long and hard before you choose to cross that line, Freya," warned Morgana, her eyes hardening. "I will ask you again: who will you stand by?"

Freya held up her chin. "Long live the king." She looked Morgana full in the face. "And long life also to his _rightful_ successor." After a pause, she added, "_Arthur_ Pendragon. May Camelot's future rest in _his_ hands, and in those of the ones that will always stand by his side. And failure to any pretenders."

For a moment, Freya thought Morgana was about to lift a hand and smack her across the face, but she did not. "Have it your way. I _thought_ you might be hardheaded enough to think that."

"Did you?"

"Yes, and I'm still one step ahead." Morgana smirked. "Breathe one word of a rebellion, of my conspiring with Morgause, to Arthur, and you will regret it. After all, just think how Uther would react if he learned his beloved daughter-in-law was having an affair with a lowly serving-boy."

Freya felt the blood in her veins freeze and her heart started hammering, drumming and echoing in her ears. Her face paled till it was ashen. How had Morgana found out? Did anyone else know?

"Don't look so surprised," she laughed, condescendingly. "I've known for quite some time. That's what's been eating at you lately, isn't it? That you want him again and it cannot be?" She sighed, as if caught between annoyance and amusement. "Your eyes follow Arthur's manservant across the room constantly. When you dine with Uther, you glance over your shoulder and stare when he fills your chalice, or when he comes over to attend to Arthur."

"_Why_? Why this cruelty?" Freya heard herself mumble. "If you know I love him."

"Oh, Freya..." Morgana pouted mockingly. "Don't be like that. Think of it as politics. You've chosen your side. And I have to protect mine. Uther would likely execute your beloved Merlin. And you would be charged with treason. But, of course, it isn't going to happen." Her smirk returned and spread. "Because you're not going to say anything."

"No, it's more than that. I can see it in your eyes. Why do you despise me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You seem," Freya noted, "to really _hate_ me."

Morgana said nothing to confirm nor deny this.

"Why?" she pressed. "Because I chose Arthur's side over yours? I thought..." She stopped, still a little too stunned and hurt to speak clearly. "I thought, back when you didn't tell Uther about the mark on my arm when we first met... I thought you wanted to be friends. I only conspired to poison you to protect Camelot, as did Merlin. I never hated you, Morgana, _never_. Not until this very moment. And even now, mostly I just feel _empty_ towards you."

"I feel contempt," Morgana finally admitted, "for you, Freya, because you hate what you really are. You love ordinary, selfish people; you want so badly to be one of them that you would never stand up for what is yours. You look down on me for using my position in court for my own gains, but is it any fault of mine that you never used yours for revenge on Uther? That you think of protecting the very people that force you to keep who you really are a secret? You're _ashamed_ of magic." She glared at her. "And if there's anything worse than someone without magic making me feel like a monster, like I have to keep myself hidden, it's someone _with_ magic who does so. Someone who is too cowardly to use their standing to take back what might have rightly been theirs. I gave you a chance, a moment ago, to redeem yourself, and you refused to take it. Now you will suffer the consequences. So, say a word of this to anyone, and I guarantee you news of your pathetic little affair with Merlin will reach Uther's ears." She reached out and snagged Freya's wrist, twisting it just a little so that Freya grimaced and writhed ever so slightly. "Do you understand?"

She nodded, blinking back tears.

Morgana let go of her wrist. "Good."

ARTHUR YAWNED AS Merlin poured wine into his chalice, for once managing to do so half decently and in complete silence that, somehow, though it scarcely seemed _possible_, was just as irritating as his usual nonsensical prattle.

"What is _with _you?" demanded Arthur.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Sire," Merlin said, a little distractedly.

"You've been acting strangely all day, Merlin."

Merlin shrugged. "Why do you think that?"

"For one thing, you're quiet, almost, dare I say it, _competent_ at your tasks," Arthur listed, "and, for another, you were taking things out in saddlebags every other hour or so."

Merlin's forehead crinkled. "What?"

"I'm telling you right now, Merlin," Arthur warned him, "that if you're trying to get on my good side so I'll grant you time off to take some sort of one-man holiday God only knows where, so you can blow off your time cavorting and gallivanting, you're sorely mistaken. So let me relieve you of that little mental lapse this instant. You're not going _anywhere_."

"Arthur, I have no idea what you're taking about," Merlin told him, truthfully. He honestly _hadn't_ been handling saddlebags at all that day; the only time he'd been anywhere _near _the stables was to muck out the stalls where Arthur's horses were housed.

"Oh, don't lie to me," snorted Arthur, putting down his silver utensils with a light _clink_ against the wood of the table and cocking his head at his manservant to give him a proper 'stern glare'. "I've seen you at it, carrying those saddlebags right across the edge of the courtyard. And you were being particularly shifty, like you didn't want too many people to notice you. It was like you had something to_ hide_."

"I don't know who you saw," Merlin said, "but it couldn't have been me."

"It was definitely you," Arthur insisted, sounding more and more annoyed by the second. Merlin was seriously testing his patience. "_Please_ tell me you didn't think I wouldn't recognize you just because you changed your scarf and put on a _hat_. Do I look like an idiot to you?"

Merlin paused. Then, "Well..."

"Merlin!"

"Right... That was rhetorical, wasn't it?" He forced a tight, rather sheepish (almost apologetic, but not quite) grin.

"Figure that out yourself, did you?"

"Sorry."

"Anyway, you're not going anywhere. So you can just unpack whatever you were preparing. Whenever I say you're done here."

Suddenly Merlin was struck by a new idea; it was a notion that immediately charged him full of fear. He'd just had a thought as to who Arthur might have seen.

Someone wearing his clothes, hiding their head, and carrying saddlebags... It had to be someone slim and quick-footed enough to pass for a servant...

Could it have been Freya?

His eyes widened with the knowledge of the increasing possibility.

He remembered so well, and so _clearly_, when she was the boy on the road with the pony and nobody else had really noticed her, save for himself. She had worn his clothes then, and slipped right under the guards' noses. No one would have thought to stop her if she had decided to take off then. Was it possible that she thought she could go somewhere now?

She wasn't in Arthur's chambers; when Merlin asked where she was Arthur hadn't seemed too anxious or anything, but he hadn't _known_, either...

But would she really leave without saying goodbye?

His thoughts turned, unwillingly, in a flash of memory he could not hold back, to the first time they had planned to run away together. He remembered, so painfully, running through the catacombs under the castle to fetch her so they could get away before the increased hunt for her began, only to find nothing there but the dress he'd stolen from Morgana's wardrobe, left behind, surrounded by candles.

Freya had tried to leave him once, selflessly, in hopes of his not giving up the life he had for himself in Camelot, and he knew, deep down, she wouldn't hesitate to do so again, if she thought it would benefit him in some way. Except, it didn't make sense, because _she_ had a life here as well now. Perhaps not the life they both wanted, but a life nonetheless, safe existence within Camelot. She didn't _have_ to flee.

So the question was, _why_? Why was she leaving him again?

But there was no time for that, not really. He had to stop her. Not even waiting for Arthur to dismiss him, ignoring the ill-tempered, outraged shouts of "_Mur-lynn_!" that followed, Merlin ran from the room and raced through the corridors, down the stairs and out the nearest door, across the courtyard and straight on to the stables.

If he hurried, he might just catch her in time.

He came up, sure enough, on the sight of Freya, dressed in his clothes, strapping supplies (food, filled waterskins, and two changes of plain women's clothing, which she'd stolen, a tad reluctantly, from Gwen and another maidservant, leaving her royal dresses, including the one she'd changed out of in a seldom-used antechamber when she'd donned Merlin's clothes, behind) to the white pony.

He lifted the latch on the stall's door and made her jump. "Where are you going?"

Freya recognized him and exhaled in mild relief. "Away. Thank you for everything, Merlin, but I've overstayed my welcome here at Camelot."

"You can't just leave," he protested.

"I _have _to," she said. Lowering her voice, she added, "Morgana knows about us. As long as I'm here, I'm a threat to your safety." She paused. "And to your destiny."

"That's not true!" How many times did he have to tell her that? "Whatever happens next, we'll face it together."

Freya smiled softly, unexpectedly.

"What?"

"I'm going to miss you."

"No, you won't." Merlin's face lit up. "Because you're going to let me come with you. We'll _both_ leave. No one will question two common boys traveling through on a horse. We can leave the pony and take a stronger horse that can carry us both. If anyone asks, which I doubt they will, we wouldn't even need to change your name that much; we could call you Freyr."

"You know my answer," whispered Freya.

"You want that more than anything..." Merlin began.

"And?"

"And, _still_," he sighed, "you won't go with me."

She nodded. "I'm sorry."

"_Please_, Freya," he begged. "I'll go anywhere. We can leave together. Get away from all of this. No more Camelot, no more Uther, no more-" He stopped. _No more Arthur_. That had been what he'd almost said at the end there. Except, that bit didn't sound as good as it should have, not like the rest did. Arthur was his master, and friend. But, still, he loved Freya; if she would only agree to go with him, he would leave Arthur and the rest behind.

"No."

"But _you_ still intend to go."

"Yes." She lowered her eyes, staring down at her feet.

"You can't do that to me," Merlin blurted. "Not again. You tried to leave Camelot on your own once, and you got killed. It almost destroyed me. We can fake smiles and pretend it never happened, but it's still _real_ to me, Freya. I still have _nightmares_ about it sometimes. Just because I don't talk about it, doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt. I couldn't stand it if you died again. On the road, who's going to protect you? The two of us, we could make it. On your own... You're strong; maybe stronger than anybody else I've ever known, but... There are bandits, or even sorcerers who are really in a bad way and angry with Uther and could attack lone travelers coming from the general direction of Camelot... What about when you turn into a Bastet at midnight? If another bounty hunter captures you...?" His eyes filled with tears and he shook his head, swallowing back a sob. "Freya, you _can't_. You can't do that to me."

"You have a good life," Freya reminded him, yet again. "I can't keep damaging it."

"If you leave now," Merlin said flatly, "like _this_, that's exactly what you will be doing."

Tears filled _her _eyes now, too. "You need to let me go."

"I can't," he choked out.

She embraced him, linking her arms behind his neck. He clung to her, tightly. They sank down, together, to their knees in the stacked hay, still holding on to each other.

"Freya..." He kissed her on the lips.

She kissed him in return, then pulled away. "This has to stop."

He swallowed and stroked the side of her face. "I know."

She kissed him again, more lingeringly.

If someone had come by then, they would have been hard-pressed to identify the two beings with locked lips, pressed up against each other, curled up like beasts in the haystacks, as the prince's manservant and the princess of Camelot. Indeed, it looked, because of how Freya was attired, more like the same person, a pair of doubles; mirror images, not unlike a set of twins, clasping each other in their arms, unable (or _unwilling_) to let go. An artistic observer would have found a muse in the pair, and a sane person would have been confused and slightly disturbed by them.

When they finally broke apart again, Merlin helped Freya to her feet. Then he looked to the pony, silently asking what she intended.

Freya shook her head. Staying was a mistake, but she couldn't leave. They must not continue their affair, giving Morgana nothing more to go on, they must be merely servant and princess, though she had no idea how to treat him so. And yet, she could not go, could not leave Camelot as she'd secretly planned. Merlin was right, about the dangers of her traveling on her own; but it wasn't what would happen to herself that frightened her so much as what it would do to _him_.

Merlin volunteered to take the saddlebags back into the castle for her (when Arthur saw this, he simply assumed Merlin was doing as he was told and unpacking), and Freya went back to the antechamber to change into her dress again.

Later, Merlin went in there and retrieved his clothing from behind a marble pillar, where she had hidden them.

Looking like a princess again, Freya returned, dejectedly, to her husband's chambers.

Arthur heard her enter, yawned, and, looking up from some document he appeared to be sitting up reading at the table by the window, said, "Freya. You're back."

"Yes."

"Where have you been?"

"Nowhere."

This answer, incredibly vague though it was, must have satisfied him, for he nodded, shifted in his chair, and went back to whatever he was reading without even so much as another concerned half-glance in his wife's direction.


	15. Secrets Revealed

~Chapter fifteen: Secrets Revealed~

THERE ARE FEW things done under the roof of a nobleman, be he king, prince, duke, count, viscount, or any other titled man born into high-standing, that do not eventually come to light and reach his eyes and ears. Stories abound in history of short whispers, uttered by those with pure intentions and the wicked of heart alike, that have all but plunged entire kingdoms into darkness. Other stories tell of nobles who have, evidently, the mind and heart of that great future detective Sherlock Holmes, brilliant minds born far, far before their time; these, apparently, have no problem putting two and two together for themselves, with no need for whisperers.

Arthur, though he had conspirators in court who would have whispered, had they been properly provoked (Morgana, for instance), and though he was a clever young man, fell into neither of these two categories.

No, instead, he fell into a third group, one slightly more rare, but not non-existent. The noblemen in this metaphorical third 'column' give trust freely and are excluded, for some time, from any gossip that would actually be of use or interest to them. But that is not to say that they don't stumble upon the same horrifying, shattering discoveries as the fellows that make up the first two groups. In fact, the term 'stumble upon' really fits the third group best.

What it means is, quite simply, the third type of noblemen waltz into a room innocently, suspecting nothing, and come, accidentally, due purely to bad timing and little else, up against something that shocks them.

Arthur's discovery would take place on a chilly evening.

On the aforementioned evening, Merlin happened, for once, also by pure accident and by no design of any potential schemers, to be alone with Freya in Arthur's chambers. Indeed, had Gaius been aware of this little accident, he would have done something to prevent it; likely, he'd have sent Merlin off someplace else, having him attend to Arthur's chambers later and then made up some excuse to Arthur, if he balked. However, he knew nothing of it.

It was an hour at which Arthur was usually in his chambers, but this night he had, instead, ended up dining with a friend of Uther's, a sort of distant cousin about (as far as Arthur could figure) a dozen and one times removed. Arthur didn't like him, because he told dirty jokes, and, even if Morgana or any other courtly lady was present, then proceeded to _explain_ them, as if he was worried his audience would miss the point of the jest. Uther himself was rather easily irked by this cousin and made it a habit to only invite him to Camelot every other year or so (he would have made it every _five_ years, but alas the darned nobleman, for all his boorish jokes and rough exterior, was hypersensitive to slights and would have taken such a suggestion as a great insult).

That very afternoon, as it happened, Arthur and Freya had had to take their noon meal with him.

And, ignoring Freya and Morgana, their guest had told rather a nasty story (it was meant to be a _joke_, naturally, except it was not particularly funny; not the way _he'd _told it, anyway) about a lady and a servant.

In the story, a petrified child runs into his mother's (the lady's) arms and sobs that he has had a premonition that his father is going to die. The lady's husband, some sort of duke, spends all of the next day waiting for something to fall on his head. Come nighttime, he finds his ladylove sulking and carrying on miserably. He, very much annoyed, asks her how dare she fuss so, when it was he who had suffered through the worst day of his life, waiting for death, when the lady, pouting, growls, "_Husband_! You think _you've_ had a bad day? This morning, your manservant went and dropped dead on the verandah!"

Poor Freya, hearing the story closely followed by the disturbingly detailed explanation of the joke's punchline, being that the lady was having relations with the manservant, choked on the piece of fish she'd been eating, and Arthur, thinking she was merely repelled by the nature of the story being so improper, glared at their guest and had to pat her on the back until she dislodged the fish.

And, Merlin, for his part, accidentally knocked over the goblet at Arthur's elbow, which he was supposed to be refilling; because his hands were shaking.

Uther glared at him (Arthur was too busy attending to Freya to bother), but got over it quickly enough. He was more peeved at the guest. Adultery _and_ magic (premonitions) mentioned in such a dreadful manner at what was supposed to be a delightful family meal! It was almost too much too take. Uther himself was not sinless of sharing the odd, off-colour joke, but never in front of Morgana and Freya! It was one thing to tell a story of that nature in front of knights or guards, but not _ladies_! And one of them a _princess_!

So, in light of this, Arthur had been considerate and excused Freya from having to take supper with his disreputable cousin, saying he'd have something brought to their chambers and she could rest awhile, if she liked.

And, of course, who would Arthur have ordered to bring her food and then attend to the state of the room, other than Merlin himself?

Merlin brought in a fine meal and put it out on the table for her (as always, he remembered the strawberries) then went ahead and started, silently, on his duties. He made sure all the windows were latched so the chill wouldn't break in, scrubbed the floor, and swept up some stray ashes near the hearth of the fireplace. And Freya watched him doing all this while she ate.

The fire went out, and Merlin went over to remedy this.

Freya, by then, had finished eating and was standing by the foot of the bed, still watching Merlin at his work.

If he had thought to glance at her, instead of avoiding her stare, Merlin might have noticed Freya was biting her lower lip, like she was holding back a smile, and that there was a slightly mischievous twinkle in her eyes that had not been there a moment before.

"Where's the poker?" Merlin couldn't find it among the fire-starting tools.

Freya began to giggle.

He looked over his shoulder at her. "Freya?"

She pulled it out from behind her back. "Sorry."

"_Freya_!" he laughed, standing up and walking over to her. "All right, very funny. Give it here."

"You might have asked me for it _nicely_," Freya said, cocking her head at him and pretending to pout.

"I thought you might be cold," he pointed out, gesturing at the dead fire. "I didn't have _time_ to be nice."

Freya shrugged and raised her eyebrows playfully.

Merlin rolled his eyes and, using magic, turned his back to her, muttered an incantation, and lit the fire without the use of the poker.

Still holding the poker, Freya pantomimed applauding.

He laughed again and took another step towards her. "Now you really have to give it back."

"Honestly, Merlin," teased Freya, inclining her head so as to gesture at the fire, "a man of your talents clearly doesn't need it."

"But what are you going to do?" he chuckled. "Hold onto that poker all night?"

Freya didn't answer.

Merlin reached out to take the poker from her, but she moved it behind her back again. Without meaning to, Merlin found one of his arms had slipped around her. Suddenly he cared extremely little about the poker he'd been reaching for.

Apparently it was the same for Freya; the overwhelming feeling of being that close to him, even by mistake. This wasn't what she'd intended when she pulled back the poker; she'd only been playing around with him. It had been completely innocent, up till that very moment. All the same... Her hand holding the poker was next to the bed; she let go of it so that it landed on the mattress without making a sound. Then she pulled herself further into Merlin's arms as they wrapped more tightly around her.

Their heads tilted and their lips met, briefly opening.

Freya's head swam, but she regained her senses. This wasn't the (at least _somewhat_) private security of Merlin's room or of a hayloft in the stables; they were in Arthur's chambers.

"Merlin..." Her mouth pulled away from his, though they were still locked in an embrace. "What if Arthur comes in and sees us?"

A door slammed. "What _indeed_."

Merlin turned his head to see Arthur standing there, looking a little pale with sickly surprise yet still suitably furious.

He hadn't been there long, certainly not long enough to have seen their entire exchange with the poker, nor even when they began to wrap their arms around each other, but he had seen them, in a full embrace, kissing, and then heard what Freya had just said; that was enough. It was pretty hard to disprove or argue with something that was staring him right in the face. Besides, _who_ would he argue with? Freya and Merlin could hardly deny something he'd seen them doing with his own eyes, and there was nobody else there.

"Sire, I... I, mean... Arthur..." Merlin stammered. "I know this looks... You don't know..."

"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped. "You will shut up and refrain from touching my wife in that over-familiar manner at once."

Merlin let go of Freya.

"Freya, come here." Arthur's eyes were icy.

She took a few trembling steps forward.

"For God's sake, Freya! I'm not going to _hit_ you." He glared at her in annoyance, noticing she was still standing a good ways off from where he'd indicated. "Come _here_."

She did as he asked.

"I understand," Arthur began, coldly, "that I'm not the most affectionate husband you could have ended up with. If you were feeling..." He paused, searching his mind for the right word. "..._Lonely_... You might have said something to _me_ about it first."

Freya took a deep breath. "I would not presume to insist that you give love you did not feel."

Arthur looked at her incredulously. "And you imagine my idiot servant feels this love towards you that you believe me incapable of?"

"Merlin is not an idiot."

Merlin shook his head. "Don't defend me, Freya."

"Freya," said Arthur, a great deal of hurt in his tone, "_I_ didn't ask to be married to _you_, either."

"I know, I-"

He cut her off. "But I was never disloyal to you."

"You love Guinevere," Freya piped up. "You know how it feels to be-"

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "How dare you reduce my feelings for Guinevere, which I have never, since we said our vows, _acted _upon, to whatever temporary insanity caused you to kiss my manservant!"

"It's not insane to want to be loved," said Merlin.

"I thought I told _you_ to shut up," Arthur snarled.

"Arthur," Merlin pressed on, probably unwisely, "we tried not to. We didn't want to betray you."

Arthur's eyes shifted away from Freya's face and landed on Merlin's. For the first time, he could see the full extent of guilt in his manservant's expression. That level of extreme guilt told the prince something he did _not_ wish to learn.

"Oh, my God." Arthur looked as if he wanted to vomit. He pointed at Merlin in disbelief. "You've _been_ with her!"

Merlin lowered his head.

If Arthur had hoped, however vainly, for Merlin to deny it, or for Freya to jump in and insist that this was the first time anything between them had happened and his suspicions could not be farther from the truth, he was sorely disappointed.

"Freya..." Arthur's throat went dry, his voice growing a little hoarse. "Is this true?"

She nodded and held back tears. "Yes."

"When?"

Neither of them could bring themselves to answer.

"Freya, when you go to see Gaius every midnight," Arthur said, "tell me the _truth_... Is Gaius always there?"

"There was one night," whispered Freya, brokenly, "when he was not."

"And you...?"

"Yes."

"How _could_ you?"

"I'm sorry."

"Me too. I thought, even if you didn't love me, you _respected_ me." Arthur stared down Merlin next. "And, you. You were... I _trusted _you!" This servant... This person he'd considered almost a _friend_... He had never thought anything of leaving Freya under Merlin's care... Never once had he suspected him to take advantage of that.

"It wasn't Merlin's fault," Freya said. "It was mine."

"He knew better than to-" began Arthur.

"No, Arthur," Freya insisted. "I'm not who you think I am."

Merlin's eyes widened, realizing what she was about to confess. "Freya, _don't_!"

"I am not..." Her voice quivered. "I am not the Lady of Shalott. I'm not even really sure where Astolat _is_."

Arthur's brow furrowed with confusion. "Then who are you?"

"I'm a-"

"Freya, stop." Merlin came forward. "Please, Arthur, she's distressed, she doesn't know what she's saying."

"Shut up, Merlin." Arthur demanded to hear the rest.

"I'm a Druid," Freya told him.

"A _Druid_?" How on earth had a _Druid_ gotten into the Pendragon family?

"Oh _no_..." Merlin mumbled to himself.

"Yes. When you took me out of that boat and brought me to Camelot... That was not the first time we met."

"We knew each other before?"

"We met only once." Freya smiled sadly, fighting against a sob caught in her throat. "You wouldn't remember." She stuck out her arm and rolled up the long, lacy sleeve of her dress.

Arthur stared numbly at her. He had the feeling of blinking in a smoky room though there was no smoke in his chambers and his eyelids never closed, only opened all the wider. It was as if some attribute, some small aspect of Freya's being, had been shrouded all this time in a mist; a mist Arthur had not cared enough about to try and peer through. Most women, after all, _are _entitled to some level of mysteriousness in the eyes of their husbands. But, now, the mist thinned, almost vanishing altogether, and he found _could_ see through it.

She was wrong; he_ did _remember her. Not her face, however, so much as her voice: _Please let me go..._ "The Bastet," he gasped. "That was _you_?"

"Yes, Arthur. The cursed magical creature you killed that night... That was _me_."

Her arm was still extended towards him. There was a mist around _that_, too. It was as if, to his eyes, a Druid mark just _appeared _there, rippling unsteadily until it decided to stay and stop blurring and making the back of his eyes ache and his head throb when he tried to look at it.

"I don't believe this," mumbled Arthur.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," Freya said. "I didn't _mean_ to, but I was afraid Uther would kill me."

"That letter, saying you were the Lady of Shalott..." Arthur mused, anger coming back into his voice. "_You_ wrote that! You tricked us, wormed your way into our family, made yourself a princess here at Camelot, meaning to betray us, and in the meantime you settled for corrupting my servant."

"No!" cried Freya. "That is not true! I would _never_."

"I can't trust anything you say," Arthur realized. "You're a Druid; you have magic."

"Arthur, back off!" shouted Merlin. "She's just a _girl_! She didn't _choose _to be born a Druid; just like she didn't choose to marry you and become princess of Camelot! Freya did _not_ write that letter."

"And how would _you_ know that, _Merlin_?" snorted Arthur.

"Because she was probably still _dead_ when the Sidhe wrote it," Merlin blurted out angrily, "thanks to _you_!"

"She's a sorceress. Like Morgause."

"Arthur, not _everyone_ with magic is like that!" Merlin protested, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice.

"You don't know anything _about_ magic," Arthur retorted, rather pompously. "My father's told me-"

"You might be surprised!" blurted Merlin.

Freya got wind of where this was headed. "No, Merlin. _Don't_! Not now. You're too angry. That's not you."

He was panting, his heavy breathing making his chest heave. Freya was right; he couldn't let this get the better of him, let Arthur cause him to reveal his magic out of sheer anger. That wasn't what his gifts were for. Their purpose was to _help_ Arthur, not show him up, and certainly not to pamper his own repressed need to be right for _once_. If he was going to reveal his magic, it had to be for the right reasons. Besides, right now, as worked up as he was becoming, he might be tempted to somehow _hurt_ Arthur with magic, and that _definitely_ wasn't right; he knew he would regret causing him any harm the second the heat of the moment died down.

"Don't speak to him," Arthur ordered. "Apparently he has no resistance against your magic, Witch."

"_Don't_," said Merlin, slowly and dangerously, "call her that."

"She's a traitor," he pointed out. "She conspired-"

"_Conspired_?" scoffed Merlin. "You can't be serious. Arthur, she's completely innocent."

There was a flash of doubt in Arthur's eyes that would have never, not in a thousand years, been present in Uther's in a situation like this. On the one hand, Arthur had been taught that the Druids would see his father's kingdom destroyed. On the other, Freya, though she had betrayed him as a wife, had not practiced any magic that he'd personally witnessed, despite evidently being born a Druid; nor did he have _proof _that she'd written that letter and been only pretending to be dismayed at the prospect of marriage to the crown prince of Camelot; that was only speculation. And that speculation, he knew, deep down, was based on stereotypes. But how could he be sure she wasn't a witch? That his father wasn't right? He had almost trusted Morgause, when he first met her, but that had come to no good; she'd nearly led him to kill his father! Freya could be the same. Who knew what horror she could be secretly planning behind that frightened little girl facade of hers?

Arthur reached out and grasped, perhaps a little too roughly, Freya's upper arm. Whether he meant to drag her down to the dungeons or hurl her out the window, or simply to drag her out of Camelot's jurisdiction so his father could not put her, his unfaithful magical wife, to death, he didn't know; he was still largely undecided.

But Freya, not expecting him to latch onto her like that, let out a small scream, a short cry of pain, and Arthur found himself trapped in even further hesitation.

Her scream brought memories to his mind. Very, very _bad_ memories. He remembered a Druid camp he'd once led a raid on. Uther had been so proud of him, so young, taking charge like a real man, like a real leader, but, deep down, the experience had scarred Arthur for life; he simply never spoke of it. Not one word. Not to _anyone_. There had been woman and children in that camp. He'd ordered them to be spared, but he saw, with his own horrified eyes, those orders disobeyed. He had been young, and stupid, and he just _froze_...

Freya, obviously, was not one of _those_ Druids, but with her scream, she might as well have been.

If he was meant to kill her again, Arthur wished she would turn back into a beast and attack him. A beast, in a fight, he could kill. But a young woman, in cold blood?

With the blood already on his hands, on account of the raided camp, that even helping Morgana save the little Druid boy Mordred had not _really_ washed away...

His mixed up conscience caused him to loosen his grip on her arm and Freya used that chance to pull away.

Merlin, not missing his own chance, stationed himself in front of her protectively.

Arthur had better not try anything like that_ again_, he thought darkly.

"Get out of the way, Merlin." Arthur sounded tired. "Something has to be done about her."

"Over my dead body," he hissed.

"She's enchanted you," Arthur tried. "Try to break through it."

"She hasn't _enchanted _me," grunted Merlin. He wasn't angry now, so much as he was _scared_; scared for Freya. "Why do you think she comes to me every midnight? It's so she _doesn't _hurt you or anybody else in Camelot! She doesn't _want_ to kill. When she's a Bastet, I can keep her calm until she changes back. I've done so nearly every night since she _got_ here! Whether she's a human or a Bastet, she means no threat to anyone here."

Arthur paused. "She goes to _you _every night, to keep her calm, not because she needs a tonic from Gaius." He blinked. "I don't understand, Merlin. Why _you_?"

He needed to make Arthur see that Freya wasn't the enemy, that she hadn't enchanted him into loving her. It wasn't right to show his magic to win a fight of anger, but it was another entirely to show it to _protect_ someone.

"Mostly," said Merlin, "it's because we know each other very well. Back when she was first here in Camelot, I was trying to protect her. I hid her under the castle. That's where your food kept going, when I made you think you were getting fat. She _trusts_ me, even as a Bastet." He swallowed. This was it. "But there's something _else,_ Arthur, something I couldn't tell you... I'm sorry I had to keep it a secret from you all this time."

"Merlin!" protested Freya, looking at him pleadingly, silently begging him not to go through with it; not to risk everything on her behalf.

"You've confessed to sleeping with my _wife_," said Arthur pointedly, rolling his eyes, "what bigger secret could you _possibly_ have?"

Merlin held out one of his hands, clenched in a loose fist. "_Forbærnen_." His eyes glowed gold and, ever so slowly, he opened his hand to reveal a mini-flame in the middle of his palm.


	16. Uther Passes Judgement

~Chapter sixteen: Uther Passes Judgement~

GAIUS LOOKED UP to see Merlin coming through the door of their shared quarters, his expression dazed and his eyes gone almost listless from mental exhaustion.

"Merlin?" He blinked at him, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Arthur knows I have magic," he murmured.

"_What_?" Gaius almost choked on his own saliva. He thought for sure he _must _have heard him wrong. "How did he find out?"

Merlin grimaced, knowing Gaius wasn't going to like what he said next. "He knows, because I told him. Well, _showed_ him, actually."

"And _what_, pray tell, possessed you to do such a thing?" cried Gaius, his face quickly darkening with dismay.

"Freya told him she was a Druid," Merlin admitted, bringing a shaking hand up to his chin. "I was scared Arthur would have her killed."

"And your great solution to that," snapped Gaius sarcastically, raising his voice, "is to offer to jump into the flames _yourself_?"

"I had to." Merlin blanched. "I promised her I'd look after her. It was the only way I could think of."

"Have you some kind of death wish, Merlin?" demanded Gaius.

Merlin thought for a moment. "If you're asking if I _want_ to die: no, not really. But if you're asking if I would rather stop living than have to see Freya die _again_, then yes."

"I don't understand you sometimes," Gaius told him. "You've done everything to protect your secret and keep that head of yours attached to your neck. Then some Druid girl turns up in a cage and you're suddenly ready to throw everything away."

"Freya," Merlin retorted, "is not just 'some Druid girl'! She means everything to me."

"Oh, really? She means _everything_ to you? More than your destiny?" Gaius challenged, a bit more anger in his voice than was actually called for. "More than Albion? More than Arthur? How can you just stop caring about those things?"

"I _haven't_," protested Merlin. "I care as much about them as ever... I just... I care about _Freya_, too. Those things will never stop mattering to me, but I don't know that I want them if... I just don't think I _want_ a destiny if she isn't a part of it."

"A destiny isn't something you can just toss aside because it inconveniences you on occasion!"

"On occasion?" Merlin practically _spat_ out. "_Occasion_? Every day up until now I've had to hide who I really am; I've done countless chores for you, run endless errands, in and out, on my feet, for _hours_; and sometimes Arthur works me so hard that in the mornings I wake up so sore I can barely _move_; I've been poisoned, pelted with fruit, forced to save Arthur's hide more times than I can count, pushed around, bullied, told what to do, rarely (if _ever_) allowed an opinion of my own on _anything_...

"There have been days when just want to throw back my head and _scream_ until I pass out! But have I complained? I think maybe, once, Gaius, _once_, in all the time I've been here in Camelot, I ranted at you. I've never asked for anything. I've never asked for happiness for myself; it's always Arthur this and Arthur that. And you know what? Nine out of ten times, I don't care. I don't mind that he gets everything. I see the same great king in him that everybody else does, so I'm fine taking the slack, being called an idiot, getting tossed aside like I'm worthless. But once in a while, would it _kill_ you to stop and wonder whether or not I'm happy? You're my_ friend_, Gaius, you're supposed to care about how _I_ feel! Not obsessively, not every day, but maybe just _once_. Just once, _look_ at me. Do you see someone who's doing all right? Or do you see someone Uther's orders have made miserable?"

"Uther makes his share of mistakes," managed Gaius, taken slightly aback by Merlin's sharp tone, "but that doesn't give you the right to make mistakes of your own in pursuit of blind happiness that is, like it or not, only going to lead to your _death_! Freya being unfairly executed would indeed be a tragedy. But is it so wrong that I don't want to see you dragged to the chopping block _with _her? You think only of your romantic feelings for her, and they cloud your judgement; I'm thinking of _you_, of the life you may have stupidly tossed aside when you showed Arthur your magic too soon."

"Oh, no, no, no." Merlin glared and shook his head. "You're not thinking of _me_. I can't believe I didn't see it _before_! This isn't even _about _me. You've had it in for Freya since the beginning."

"Merlin, don't be ridiculous," snorted Gaius. "I do not have it in for her."

"When I first saw her in that cage, you wanted me to _leave_ her there," Merlin pointed out. "When I kept her hidden under the castle, you wanted me to tell you where she was so you could set Uther's guards on her."

"Innocent people were _dying_!" shouted Gaius, waving his hands in frustration.

Merlin ignored that and went on. "Even now that you know she wouldn't hurt anyone, that I can keep her from killing when she's a Bastet, you _barely_ treat her with respect."

"_Merlin_!" Gaius reprimanded, scowling.

"You don't care about how we feel." His voice cracked. "Your idea of solving this problem is to just keep us apart as much as possible."

"So I was meant," Gaius simpered crossly, "to _let_ the two of you keep fornicating behind Arthur's back?"

Merlin bit onto his lower lip, blinked back the tears that were blurring his view of the old physician's face, and said nothing in reply to that. What _could_ he say? Yes, the night he was referring to had been a mistake, and a fairly big one, at that, but Gaius was no saint in this, either; he'd lied, and deceived. In spite of the obvious dangers, Merlin was largely unable to comprehend how Gaius could be so angry with him for breaking the cycle of lies and secrets and finally telling the _truth_.

"Merlin..."

"No," said Merlin, sourly, finding his voice at last. "You're right. Of course you are. And I'm sorry. You're always right, aren't you?" His throat ached as he rasped out, as if in aggravated reply to his own rhetorical question, "Damn it, Gaius! Why does it feel like I'm always _apologizing_ to you? Would you like me better if, when I'm not working for Arthur, I just sat in a corner doing nothing but stare at my hands?"

Gaius arched an eyebrow. "Are you quite finished, Merlin?"

"I'm not sure," Merlin mumble-blurted. He couldn't remember ever taking a row with Gaius this far before, and the shock of the whole thing was kind of taking its toll on him. "I'll let you know when the pounding and ringing in my ears stops."

"Our disagreement aside," Gaius said slowly, "at least tell me this: _how_ did Arthur react when he found out?" Perhaps, if Arthur wasn't completely enraged and threatened by Merlin's secret, he would be willing to keep this from Uther for a while longer, at least giving them some time to figure out what to do.

"He didn't, really," Merlin told him. "He was..._stunned_... He walked out." Left the room in _disgust_, maybe.

"Walked out?" Gaius echoed.

Merlin nodded. "He just left."

"Left his own chambers," he repeated, as if to be sure he understood Merlin's words aright.

"Yes."

"And you didn't think to wait for him to return."

"Freya told me to go," Merlin said. Then, cringing, he added, "I shouldn't have listened; I should have stayed." He started for the door. "I need to go back and make sure she's all right. If Arthur's angry and she's on her own..."

Gaius blocked his path, standing in front of him. "Go sit down."

"But-"

"No, I'm not letting you leave these quarters again tonight. You've already gotten yourself into a mess. You've no idea how fortunate you are that Arthur hasn't locked you up or handed you over to Uther already. I'm not about to let you stride back into Arthur's chambers in the bewildered state you're in and make matters worse."

"But if Freya needs me-"

"Freya will have to take care of herself."

"Gaius, you _have_ to let me go back to her. It's nearly midnight."

"I know."

"What happens if Arthur doesn't let her come?"

"I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

QUARTER TILL MIDNIGHT, Merlin sat by the window, sullenly, not having said a word since Gaius refused to let him go to Freya. He'd hoped she would come, and that, perhaps, he would be able to drag her in past Gaius; but time was sliding by and she hadn't come.

What if something had happened to her?

Gaius came behind Merlin and put a blanket over his shoulders, placing a cup of steaming herbal tea out in front of him.

Frowning, Merlin refused even to so much as _look _at Gaius and, wordlessly, shrugged the blanket off, ignoring the tea altogether. He was too upset to accept anything from him right then.

Gaius sighed, feeling badly. He knew Merlin was miserable, and, while it might not have seemed like it, he was thinking about what young warlock had said. It wasn't that Merlin was _wrong_ for wanting a little happiness, or for protecting someone he cared about, the way Gaius saw it, he just didn't like the price he was willing to pay for it. He wanted Merlin alive and safe, even if he scowled and pouted until his face _froze_ like that; not, as the alternative seemed to be, a smiling corpse.

After about five minutes, Gaius, watching Merlin out of the corner of his eye, began to wonder if the boy was coming to his senses, starting to understand a little the full impact of what he had done; for he reached behind himself, pulled the blanket back over his own shoulders, and actually took a few sips of the tea, though it had begun to cool.

Still, though, he said nothing.

"Aren't you going to bed, Merlin?"

No answer.

Gaius sighed again and decided to try and get some sleep himself. He knew he wouldn't rest well, all too aware that at any moment guards could crash in and take Merlin away, charging him with sorcery, but he figured he might as well _try_.

Merlin slowly stood up and began edging towards the door the second he realized Gaius was lying down.

Yes, he knew perfectly well Gaius was not asleep, but he also knew his friend was _old_. Gaius couldn't rise up and down so easily as a young person. By the time he'd gotten his aching bones back up, Merlin would already be out the door.

Admittedly, Merlin had been planning this little break out for several minutes. That was why he had feigned resignation, pulling the blanket back over himself and pretending to drink the tea.

Sure enough, Gaius sat up and called after him, but by the time he was standing again, Merlin was running down the corridors as fast as his legs would carry him.

Twelve bells were tolling; it was already midnight. Freya would be changed into Bastet by now. Maybe he was too late.

Arthur's chambers were locked, from the inside. That only gave him a moment of pause; he used magic to make the lock break and the doors swing open.

Evidently, that lock and the doors themselves had been the only things in the room not _already_ broken before he got there. Tables were upset, curtains torn, and candlesticks (thankfully unlit) knocked down and strewn across the floor.

The whole place was in absolute shambles.

There was no sign of Arthur; he must still have been out, not yet returned to face his Druid wife.

The Bastet, wild and agitated, was rampaging about the length of the room, crashing into things and growling.

Merlin understood what must have happened. Freya, thinking she mightn't be permitted to see Merlin that night, in spite of Arthur's now knowing about her curse, had locked herself in and was trying, on her own, without help, to keep herself from breaking out and killing someone. This clearly was not going well; she looked more wild than Merlin had seen her in a long, long time, frantic beyond almost all reason. Luckily, the only thing she'd found to tear into that was even _close_ to human or animal flesh, was a pillow.

Which, really, explained why there were several feathers floating around like falling snow.

Merlin sneezed as one of these feathers crossed his path.

The Bastet looked up at him.

It was one of the most frightening moments of Merlin's life, though it lasted barely two minutes, for she seemed not to recognize him; the Bastet even _snarled_ in his direction.

"Freya!"

At the sound of her name, the Bastet stalled, looking confused.

"Freya, it's _me_. It's Merlin."

The Bastet growled.

"It's all right," he said, sticking out his hand. "You're all right... I'm here now. I'm right here."

The growl turned into a whining noise that, if it had been coming from her _human_ form, rather than that of the beast, would have been a whimper.

"Shh..." He stroked her head and ears tenderly. "Everything's fine. I'm looking after you, like I promised."

When Freya turned back into a human, in Merlin's arms, as he had been holding and petting the Bastet, endlessly assuring the creature of his love and protection, the first sound that came out of her throat was a short cry. "I'm so _sorry_."

He kissed her forehead.

"I could have _killed_ you," she sobbed. "I didn't know... At first, it was like I couldn't tell..."

"You knew me," Merlin murmured into her hairline reassuringly. "You were scared, that's all. You wouldn't hurt me."

Freya pulled herself out of his grasp. "Go. Leave me. I don't want you here when Arthur gets back."

"But-"

"Please just go," she begged.

"No..." He shook his head.

"Merlin, if you care about me at all, leave. Go back to Gaius. Be safe there for a little while longer."

"I have to come back in a few hours to draw the curtains and wake you and Arthur up." The irony was not completely lost in his tone; there _weren't_ any curtains up anymore, thanks to Bastet-Freya's unfortunate rampage.

"Don't be here before you have to," Freya insisted. "Please."

"Freya..."

"For _me_," she pressed. "For my sake, go away now."

Tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, Merlin hugged her once more, very quickly, and left.

"Thank you," she whispered, though he wasn't there to hear it.

Merlin expected Gaius to be furious upon his return, steadying himself for another forthcoming row, but, to his surprise, the old physician embraced him when he came through the door.

"I thought you would be angry," mumbled Merlin, into his friend's shoulder.

"I was," he said quietly, "until I saw you walk through that door."

"You thought I might be..."

"Rotting in a dungeon? Awaiting a death-sentence?" Gaius offered wearily, letting go of him. "Yes. Something like that."

"I had no choice," Merlin said.

"How's Freya?"

"She's fine." _For _now_, anyway_.

"Thanks to you, I take it?"

"She's in a better state than Arthur's chambers are," said Merlin, "I can tell you that much."

Gaius closed his eyes. "You did the right thing, Merlin."

He blinked in surprise.

"She could have killed someone. Which was the very reason I was wary of her to begin with. Forcing you to remain here was not right, and I'm sorry. I should have seen reason and _let _you go to her."

"Thank you, Gaius," whispered Merlin. That meant a lot, coming from him.

He nodded. "Well, I thought, perhaps, this time, it was _I _who owed _you_ the apology."

WHEN THE HOUR came for Merlin to return to Arthur's chambers to go about his duties, he found the room empty.

"Arthur?" he called out, with no reply.

Someone had evidently already been in to clean; the curtains were back up and everything was orderly. But there was no sign of Freya or Arthur. The bed was made and sunlight freely poured through the windows into the prince's gleaming, spotless chambers. Something wasn't right. A really bad feeling began to come over Merlin, fear gripping his pounding heart, hard as he tried to shake it off.

He went back out, into the corridor.

Coming down the opposite end, there was Arthur with two guards.

In spite of everything that had happened, Merlin thought nothing of the guards; Arthur often had guards and knights with him.

"Arthur!" he said, hearing the relief in his own voice. "I need to talk to you." Now that the shock had worn off, if they could only stop and _talk_ about what happened, about his keeping his magic hidden from him...

His expression torn (_pained_, even), Arthur turned his neck and looked at the guards. "Arrest him."

"What?" blurted Merlin.

The guards came and gripped both his arms, one on each side, grasping him securely so he could not break free.

Merlin looked at his master, face gone ashen, white as a drowned wraith. "Arthur, what are you doing?"

The guards dragged him, Arthur walking right in front of them, never once allowing himself to stop and look back at his manservant, straight into the throne room.

Uther stood there, livid. Seated on her smaller throne, was Morgana, looking pleased and amused. She had been saving this, in exchange for Freya's silence, but now that it was out in the open, she might as well enjoy the show; Merlin would be put out of the way, undoubtedly. Freya, too, probably.

Kneeling on the dais at Uther's other side, was Freya; Merlin noticed she looked petrified and that her wrists were clasped in irons. The tight iron bracelets aside, however, she was still dressed like a member of the royal court, not like a condemned witch.

"Is it true?" Uther glared down at him. "You have had..." He paused, as the next words to leave his lips were so vile he couldn't believe he was being brought to utter them. "...Improper relations... With my daughter-in-law, princess of Camelot?"

"_What_?" managed Merlin.

Arthur grimaced. He hadn't really wanted to tell his father anything. Not yet, anyway. He didn't know what to think, about Merlin and Freya, about them both having magic; especially Merlin, who he would have never suspected in a thousand years, and yet had been able to cast enchantments all this time. They'd betrayed him, so they should be his enemies. He should loathe them, not view them as friends, as people he cared about. And yet... Somehow Arthur could not make himself hate them. He could not reconcile the image of a vicious witch with evil intentions to that of the trembling Freya who had been so frightened on their wedding night before he'd assured her he had no intention of forcing himself upon her, not having wanted to marry her in the first place. Nor could he put Merlin's hapless face on that of a cackling sorcerer standing over a cauldron that spewed green smoke.

His father had found him, walking around at an ungodly hour, visibly distressed, and he'd had to tell Uther _something_.

However, Arthur knew his father's feelings about magic. What were his own? He had no idea. Not after last night, anyway. Everything was so twisted and muddled; _nothing_ was like he'd thought it was. But Uther would kill Merlin and Freya both, if he learned they had magic. Without a second thought, they'd be disposed of, long before Arthur could come to any conclusion of his own on the matter.

Maybe his father was right... But maybe he was _wrong_...

He had figured if he kept the magic part from him, and only told him about Merlin and Freya being more than friends, that could buy him some time; just enough to figure something-_anything_-out.

But, unfortunately, adultery was considered treason same as magic was. Uther's hatred of the former did not run as deep, but it was still risky.

All the same, Arthur had had no choice. He wished now he had lied, told him nothing whatever, but at the time, last night, he hadn't seen how he _could_. Freya's little scream was still echoing in his ears, driving him to distraction. And the look on Merlin's face when he opened his hand... So he had told half of what the problem was. And Uther had not taken it well. He had not taken it well at _all_. He'd forced Arthur to arrest his manservant and bring him here. This could not end well.

"Speak," growled Uther, still waiting on Merlin's answer.

"I am loyal to my master," Merlin finally came up with.

The hell you are, thought Arthur, still, in spite of his hesitation to see him and Freya killed, very angry with him. He struggled to keep his facial expression blank. It would not do to let his father see the anger he felt towards Merlin; it would only fuel Uther's own, and he did not want that.

"How _dare_ you," demanded Uther, ignoring his statement, "a _servant_, take advantage of a _prince's_ wife? Of a princess of Camelot?"

"Father," Arthur interjected, "I have reason to believe the affair was mutual." He glanced at Freya, not unkindly, though there was still some ice in his eyes. "That she consented entirely."

"Nonsense," growled Uther. "He's a servant. What could he possibly offer her?"

"I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand," blurted Merlin.

Uther struck him across the face.

"Father!" Arthur protested.

"Hush, Arthur," Uther ordered. "I believe this servant of yours must have used at least _some_ manner of force."

"Then why is Freya in chains?" Arthur pointed out, gesturing with his arm at the irons around her wrists. "If you believe her an innocent victim in all this, why punish her further? Better still, why not ask her for yourself what happened?"

"The chains are but a formality," Uther grunted. "It does not please me to see my daughter-in-law wearing them. However, on such a charge, even if she was not to blame... Not to mention, should she feel some misplaced _sympathy_ for her attacker... No, a king must not play favorites or shrink back. Even my beloved Morgana-" He stopped, turned his head, and smiled lovingly at her. "Even _she_ was once in irons for an offense against me. It pained me, and perhaps I acted hastily, but all the same, what had to be done was done. The lesson, in the end, was learned, though from a rougher source, sadly, than myself and a few chains."

"All the same," Arthur pressed, "you _haven't _asked her. How do you know the affair was not mutual?"

"Because he is a _servant_," spat Uther. "Unless he employed some sort of magical charm to make her fall in love with him, I cannot believe she would choose to betray you with _him_."

Merlin's eyes darted over to Arthur. So Arthur really _hadn't_ told Uther anything about his having magic! Uther's statement had no _suspicion_ in it; he did not believe his son's servant capable of casting an enchantment any more than he believed Freya capable of falling in love with him for _real_.

Arthur fell back into silence. He said nothing, but his mind reeled. He had never fully realized the extent to which his father looked down on servants. Yes, they _were_ 'only servants', but _still_.

After all, he knew from personal experience it was not _impossible_ for someone of noble birth to fall hopelessly in love with a servant; his love for Guinevere, though impossible, had never faded. Arthur realized that even if his marriage to Freya was annulled, because of what she and Merlin had done, his father would _never_ understand about Gwen.

How could he, when he believed servants and nobles could not truly fall in love to begin with?

And Arthur did not think he could endure_ another_ arranged marriage, void of any form of romantic love.

"So I ask again," Uther snapped at Merlin, "why have you done this?"

"I never meant to do anything wrong," Merlin heard himself say, his voice rising a few decibels, ringing, almost echo-like, in his own ears. His swollen cheek, reddened from Uther's blow, throbbed when he spoke. "My feelings for Freya were honourable and innocent. _Freya_, is not someone I could help loving. _You_ twisted that love into something wrong and shameful when you insisted your son marry her, giving neither of them a choice!"

_Merlin, you _idiot_, shut up; saying something like _that _is _not_ going to help you..._ Arthur put his hand to his forehead, flinching in anticipation of what was forthcoming.

As Arthur apparently expected, Uther struck Merlin across the face again, knocking him down on his side.

"There is but one sentence," Uther said, standing upright after having been bent over to strike Merlin, "I can pass for this unspeakable and clearly unrepentant treason."

"No!" cried Freya, the chains jingling as she stumbled up to her feet and rushed forward. "No, please! He didn't force me. I _love_ him! He was a loyal servant; I corrupted him."

"No. She's _lying_!" Merlin shouted, suddenly changing his tune in hopes of sparing her. "That's not what happened."

"_Silence_!" Uther held up his hand. "What are you _saying_, Freya?"

"I consented to the affair," she mumbled softly, tears streaming down her face. "Don't punish him for a crime he did not commit."

"Consensual or not," Uther pointed out, "he has committed treason and confessed to it. And in accordance with our laws, he shall be put to death." He signaled the guards. "Take him away."

"Father, no." Arthur stepped forward, just as the guards had grabbed Merlin again and were preparing to drag him down to the dungeons. "You know he's only a foolish boy. He's never been..." He thought for a moment. "...quite..._right_...in the head. Surely a less severe punishment could be arranged in light of the fact that we've known for years he suffers from a grave _mental_ disease."

"Excuse me?" Merlin raised an eyebrow. "I do _not_ have-"

"Shut up, Merlin."

"I don't care if the boy's an absolute _lunatic_," Uther decided. "I stick to my judgement. He shall die for his crimes against the Pendragon family. Beheaded tomorrow at dawn."

"And Freya?" asked Arthur. "What happens to _her_?"

Merlin held his breath.

"Freya is more difficult to judge. I'm no longer sure _what_ to believe in regards to her. I am considering the option of having her sent away to a nunnery for a few years. Her father was a firm believer in the New Religion, and perhaps some time there will be a good lesson for her. She could come back, when she is no longer in disgrace and this incident is behind us."

Merlin exhaled. At least Freya would still be _alive_, though he hated the thought of her being locked up for years, miserable as sin (though, seeing as it was a nunnery, sinning probably wasn't allowed).

Except... Uther _couldn't _send her away like that... The nuns of the New Religion would discover she was a Bastet and send word back to Camelot! Well, provided she didn't_ kill_ them first, when there was no one there to calm her...

Arthur knew the truth, though. Merlin looked at him pleadingly. He didn't care what they did to _him_, but Arthur, who knew about Freya's curse, though not the details, _had _to do something to protect her. He just _had _to!

But before anything more could be said or done, on either of their parts, Merlin found himself dragged out of the throne room and down several corridors and stairwells. Then, heaved like a sack of potatoes, he felt his body hit the hard, hay-lined floor of a small, dark cell, graced with only one tiny (very high up) window, as the barred door clicked shut behind him.


	17. Into The Forest

~Chapter seventeen: Into The Forest~

FREYA WAS UNDER house-arrest in Arthur's chambers, and had been so for almost the entire day. She sat, pale and brokenhearted, in a chair that, while it was _by_ the window, was not _facing_ it. Freya had no desire to look out at the courtyard; she barely had the desire to keep _breathing_. Merlin was to be beheaded at dawn and it was, in her perception, all her fault. He would be safe, his secret still a secret until the _right_ time for it to be revealed to Arthur truly came, if only she had never come back to Camelot; if she hadn't loved him.

Arthur came in, saying nothing at all to her, and sat down on the side of the bed, putting his hands over his face.

Freya sneezed.

Arthur groaned, rubbed his forehead twice with the side of his right hand, and stood up, walking over to the wardrobe to fetch her a blanket. Just because he was cross with her, for being a Druid and for sleeping with his manservant, didn't mean he wanted his wife to catch a chill. He didn't even want her to be sent away to that nunnery, knowing she would only kill or get herself killed there (possibly both). But she couldn't stay there in Camelot, either; not any longer. Uther wouldn't let her stay on in disgrace. Besides, if Merlin really was beheaded, who was supposed to keep her calm when her curse took hold? Even in regards to the upcoming midnight, only a few hours away, Arthur was at a loss for what to do.

The first blanket Arthur pulled out had a hole in it. A mite too big for moths; rats, probably. Really, all things considered, the _least_ Merlin could have done, if he insisted on keeping secrets from him and betraying him, was attend to his duties without cutting corners! It didn't look as if anyone had moved that blanket in _ages_. In fact, the one under it was gathering dust. Curiously, though, the slip of dark blue cloth he could see under the second blanket had little to no dust on it; it was as if someone had lifted the corner of the dusty blanket and put whatever was wrapped in the cloth under there for safe-keeping, expecting no one to look there.

This was, of course, Freya's most recent hiding place for the letters Merlin had sent her when he was away with Arthur searching for Morgana, as well as the glass rose, which Arthur, tugging on the cloth, not expecting to encounter a breakable object, shattered into a million pieces when he finally yanked the cloth-wrapped bundle out.

Freya knew exactly what it was her husband had stumbled on and broken the second she heard the crash and inwardly bemoaned its loss. Slowly turning her head, she saw the clear and red glass shards and specks on the floor in front of the wardrobe.

Arthur cursed under his breath and then examined the letters.

Freya bit onto her lower lip.

"He wrote you one letter every day, the _whole_ time we were gone," muttered Arthur, shuffling irritably through the very contents Freya had poured over lingeringly and Merlin had scratched out, at times, painstakingly. "Without my permission."

"Arthur, I know I don't have the right to ask you for anything," Freya said softly.

"That's right," he said, without looking up from the letters. "You don't."

"But if you feel any pity, for _either_ of us," she pressed on, her voice quivering, "please, tell Uther who I really am. Tell him I'm a Druid and I lied about being the Lady of Shalott." Then, "Tell him I enchanted Merlin into betraying you."

"And why should I do that?" Arthur asked, giving the bundle of letters a short emphatic shake. "_These_ would suggest otherwise."

"If Uther learns I'm a Druid, his hatred of me will be stronger than his hatred for Merlin. He wouldn't rank a servant's life below mine if he knew what I really am." Freya shrugged. "I can take Merlin's place at dawn. And, if you can find it in yourself to let him, he can come back here and work for you again and everything will go back to the way it was before I came to Camelot."

Arthur shook his head. "No."

Freya began to weep bitterly. "Arthur,_ please_," she sobbed. "Merlin risked everything to help me, to keep me safe. I can't watch him die!" Tears streamed down her face and she sniffled uncontrollably, trying to keep snot from dripping from her nose to her chin.

Arthur turned away from her, silently making up his mind as to what he would do. The way he saw it, there was only one thing he _could_ do.

"Arthur..."

When he faced her again, Freya noticed that the lingering traces of ice in his eyes were gone, but, in its place, there was fire. Whether he was angry so much as determined and grim-set to do whatever it was he was planning out in his mind, she didn't know, yet she found both the ice and fire equally alarming.

She trembled as Arthur strode over to where he kept his keys, snatched an iron ring with several dangling from it, then came and, without warning, grabbed onto her hand, forcibly pulling her up out of the chair, and started to drag her to the doors. She had no idea where he was taking her.

He pulled her down several empty corridors and stairwells before Freya realized they must be heading for the dungeons.

Arthur sucked his teeth at the sight of a few guards loitering about, looking bored, then pressed his finger to his lips, signaling for Freya to keep quiet. The moment the guards' backs were turned, he charged out, silently, right past them, dragging Freya with him.

When he reached the cell he was looking for, a certain familiar dark-haired, large-eared warlock jumped up to his feet and gaped at them with unrepressed surprise as Arthur tried three different keys in the lock that held the barred door shut before it clicked open.

As soon as Merlin had stepped out, Arthur thrust Freya in his direction. "Take her and leave."

Merlin just stared at him, wide-eyed.

"What are you waiting for?" Arthur snapped. "_Go_. The warning bells will be sounded soon enough."

Freya took an awkward step closer to Merlin, who hesitated, looking back and forth between Arthur and Freya with a stunned expression on his face.

Arthur had no time for Merlin's hesitation. "_Get_ out of my sight!"

Jolted out of his shock, Merlin nodded, took Freya's hand, and started running in the direction Arthur indicated. There was a way out through a tunnel on that end; a couple of wide-set iron bars had been removed for repair reasons but not yet replaced, leaving a space large enough for a slenderly-built person to slip through. If the guards didn't go there immediately, Merlin and Freya would have a head start and already be, though still on castle grounds, at least _outside_, by the time the warning bells started ringing.

In all the bustle and confusion, Merlin hadn't said thank you to Arthur for what he was doing, for giving Freya up, for letting them both go, but he _meant_ it, and, deep down, Arthur knew that.

They got out all right. Merlin made Freya go through the space created by the missing bars _first_, so that if the guards suddenly turned up and grabbed the nearest one of them from behind, hauling that one backwards, it would be _him_, and she would already be out, still giving her a chance (however dismal) to run for it. She protested, of course, but he refused to go first himself and there was no time to argue. It made her feel better, though, that he kept one hand on the side of her waist so that she could feel by his touch that he was right behind her the entire time. This also prevented her from glancing back over her shoulder every half-second. Her death had been the first thing to separate them, then the laws and morals of Camelot which bound her to Arthur as wife, and then there had been that terrible moment Uther's guards dragged him away to the dungeons and she'd thought she would never see him again; the last thing Freya needed-or _wanted_-was yet _another_ unfortunate occasion to suffer the lost of him.

The warning bells sounded, all too soon, just as Arthur had warned them. (He, as likely as not, would have gotten out of the dungeons amidst all the search-induced chaos and gone back to his chambers, fully prepared to pretend, if Uther asked, that he hadn't seen Freya leave the room and that he had no idea how Merlin had gotten out of his cell.)

"Come on, this way." Merlin grasped Freya's wrist and made a run for it, aiming, generally, for a certain concealed clearing he knew well; the same clearing he and Freya had gone to when he summoned the Great Dragon to take them for a ride over the lake of Avalon.

There came the sound, distant but still too close for comfort, of clanking armour and that of several scabbards and sheaths slapping against the thighs and upper-legs of guards.

"There they are!"

"They've found us," whimpered Freya. "They're going to catch us and bring us back... I can't go back there...I can't..."

"I won't let that happen," Merlin reassured her, still running. "Keep moving." Once they made it to the clearing, he figured they would have a few minutes, however brief, before the guards caught on and followed them in there.

In the clearing, Merlin, shouting up at the sky in Dragon Language, quickly summoned Kilgharrah.

_Please, please, _please _answer my call..._ He didn't know what he would do if, for whatever reason, the Great Dragon failed to answer his call. There was no time to think of a back-up plan should Kilgharrah not come to their rescue now; the guards would rush into the clearing and arrest them before he even had a chance to feel the sting of failure and rejection. Supposedly, it was out of a dragon's power to refuse a Dragonlord, but there was a first time for everything. Merlin could only hope this would not be the shining example of that dreadful principal: the last Dragonlord, left unanswered and dragged away, along with his lady, by Camelot's royal guards.

Thankfully, there came the beating of wings, and then Kilgharrah himself, landing right in front of them.

"There's no time to explain," Merlin said quickly, panting for breath. "Arthur knows I have magic, Uther wants to cut my head off at dawn, and the guards are after us. You have to get us out of here."

Kilgharrah obliged and Merlin climbed on, helping Freya up behind him. She held onto his waist, same as she had the last time.

The guards arrived in the clearing, from all sides, doubtless preparing to ambush the runaway treasonous lovers, just as the Great Dragon had flown out of sight.

It was as if Merlin and Freya had just vanished into thin air.

When Merlin thought about it later, he imagined it would have been almost _funny_, in an ironic sense, if Uther _had _known, when he received the report from the guards of their uncanny escape, that his son's manservant was a warlock and Freya was a Druid; the king probably would have thought they'd simply spirited themselves away with their dark magic.

IN A FOREST out of sight of Camelot and its lower town, Kilgharrah set them down. He landed in a clearing in a circular grove of candlewood trees that was almost too narrow for him but not quite; his full wingspan fit, so he could land and take off properly, and with enough ease, but only just.

"If you wish," the Great Dragon offered, "I can take you further on, to a Druid camp."

Freya shook her head. "They won't take me back. They would take in Emrys, I'm sure, if he asked it of them, but not me. Not so long as I'm cursed."

Merlin glanced at her in surprise. He had never heard her refer to him as 'Emrys' before. He supposed, really, he ought to have assumed she would have known him by that name, since even young Mordred had, and she, too, had been raised a Druid, but the thought that she knew legends about him that he himself had not yet read or learned of, felt a bit odd.

"I think, little Druid," said Kilgharrah, "that as long as Merlin is with you they will not refuse."

She swallowed back a lump in her throat and blinked back tears. "No. When I was a Bastet, I killed some of the other Druids; I didn't know how to stop myself, how to control it. No one except for Merlin has ever tried to work with my curse. Everyone else was too scared of me. They won't forgive me for what I did, and I don't really blame them."

Merlin would not risk being accepted into a camp from which Freya was forever shut out. He had no intention of ever allowing himself to be separated from her again. "I guess you'll just be leaving us here, then."

Kilgharrah nodded his great head up and down. "I guess so, young warlock. But, should you need me, you only have to call again and I will come. Willingly."

"_Would_...?" Freya squeaked out suddenly, trying to say something.

"What is it?" Merlin asked her. "What do you want?"

"Could I speak with Kilgharrah alone for a moment and catch up with you under those trees over there?" She gestured at the trees she was referring to. "I won't be long."

Merlin was hesitant to leave her, but if he had to leave her with _anyone_ at the moment, he was glad it was a creature of magic, of the Old Religion. Kilgharrah would not hurt the friend of a Dragonlord. Of that much, he was certain. So Merlin agreed and made his way to the trees she'd indicated, looking back, every so often, over his shoulder, as if some small part of him was still afraid, dearly as he trusted her, that Freya would run away or vanish without warning.

"You wish to speak with me privately?" One of the Great Dragon's eyebrows arched itself.

"Yes." She looked down, steadied herself, then glanced back up at Kilgharrah. "I'm so sorry for what I've done. For stealing Merlin's destiny. I fear I've caused Arthur to distrust him and hate magic forever." She felt very small under the strong gaze from dragon's huge eyes staring down at her. "You must hate me."

"I do not hate you, little Druid," said Kilgharrah. "It is not your fault you are cursed. And, believe it or not, it is not the fault of your curse that you came to Camelot. Perhaps all is not as lost as you think. Arthur still has a choice to make. He can let this betrayal harden his heart, or he can yet see how little Uther truly understands what he fights against. The pain you've caused him will not be without consequence on both sides, and I cannot condone all of your actions or those of Merlin in regards to this, but it may come out right in the end still. Camelot is not yet doomed, and Albion's hour to rise has not been erased from the sea of time."

"Thank you," Freya whispered. He had given her an unexpected hope.

"But..." Kilgharrah's gaze seemed to zero-in and tighten on her just a little bit.

"Yes?"

"You too may now have a part to play in this destiny of Merlin's and the new turns it has taken," he warned her. "Your duel destinies are intertwined now. You must, when the time comes, accept and deal with the _true_ meaning of this and its medium, the way in which it _must _occur, no matter what the cost. No matter how hard it may be. For it may well be the only way left for Albion to rise."

"Yes," agreed Freya. "I will. I promise."

"Farewell, for now, then," said Kilgharrah, flapping his wings, preparing to take off. "Lady of the Lake."

Freya blinked, as the dragon flew away, wondering why he had called her that. She couldn't remember ever having told the dragon that she'd grown up by a lake. Nor was that lake really _hers_. She was commonly born, titled Lady of absolutely nowhere; not of Shalott, and certainly not of any lake.

"What did he say to you?" Merlin asked, when she caught up with him.

"Nothing," she replied quietly.

He did not press her further, accepting that, whatever words had been exchanged between his lover and his dragon, Freya didn't want to talk about it now.

But he did have another question for her. "How long have you known I was Emrys?"

She smiled at him. "A while. I didn't know when we first met. When you first got me out of that cage. I knew _of_ you, of course, from the Druids, but when you introduced yourself as _Merlin _I didn't make the connection. I didn't know what Emrys would look like. But, then, as I got to know you better, I started to wonder if you were the one my family used to call by that name. By the time we were reunited, after the Sidhe brought me back to life, I'd decided you had to be."

"You aren't going to start calling me Emrys all the time now, are you?" he asked, only half-joking.

"No," laughed Freya. "Of course not." She nudged his arm playfully.

"No, _who_?" he teased.

"No, _Merlin_."

He smiled, apparently satisfied with this. "That's all right, then."

They walked for a while, semi-aimlessly, thinking more of distance than destination, stopping only at midnight when Freya changed into a Bastet, then quickly resuming when she turned back into a human again, until they finally settled down under a large oak tree, utterly exhausted.

"Merlin?"

"Hmm?" He was fighting back a yawn as he eased down and slipped his arms around her shoulders.

"What happens if the guards come looking for us in the forest tonight?" Freya rested her head on his chest.

"I seriously doubt they will."

Freya did, too, actually, but that didn't stop her from worrying. "But if they did...?"

"I'll protect you," he reminded her. "I'll stay up and keep watch. I can use my magic if someone comes."

"You're going to stay awake all night long?" she yawned.

"All night," he mumbled, though he could _already_ barely keep his eyes open.

In a few seconds, Freya was asleep.

When Merlin was sure of this, he finally let himself sleep too. He understood her fears; after all she'd gone through in life, every once in a while, Freya just needed to feel that someone was watching over her and she didn't have to look back, wide-eyed, over her shoulder, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. As soon as she had that reassurance, she did fine. He knew she didn't _actually_ expect him to stay up all night. In reality, whether she herself, in her tired state, fully realized it or not, Freya had only been asking him to stay awake until she nodded off, and he had done so, unselfishly.

And so they slept, wrapped in each others' arms, as peaceful as they could be under the circumstances, until the dawn ascended.


	18. Gilli's Hovel

~Chapter eighteen: Gilli's Hovel~

FREYA WOKE TO a small handful's worth of water lightly splashing her in the face. It came from a slight distance, so it felt more akin, actually, to being misted than to being deliberately _doused _with water, but it was still enough to cause her to awaken, disorientated and unable to remember where she was, bolting upright and gaping round at everything, eyes widened.

The last thing she remembered was being asleep under the oak tree in Merlin's arms. No, that wasn't strictly true; she had a dim recollection of opening her eyes, groggily, at what had presumably been dawn, and of Merlin's voice telling her everything was all right, that she could go back to sleep if she liked.

He must have carried her here, she realized, while she slept; wherever 'here' was. Because she could see a stream. She'd been lying on her side only a couple feet away from it. There hadn't been any stream that she recalled near their oak tree.

Blinking in the light, which was stronger now that the day had got on a bit, Freya finally spotted Merlin.

He was standing ankle-deep in the stream with a makeshift lance he must have fashioned out of a tree branch. He was using it to spear fish. It appeared that he had already caught one, and was in the process of catching another.

Freya, still on the ground, scooted nearer and pulled her knees to her chest, watching him silently.

He stepped wrong, possibly because he'd tripped over a rock he hadn't noticed until it was too late, and accidentally scared off the fish and splashed Freya in the face again (for now she understood that this was what must have happened the first time, less than a minute ago, when she was a little further from the bank).

Involuntarily, she spluttered.

Merlin turned, noticing she was awake now. He hadn't realized till right then that he'd splashed her twice, thinking, understandably, that he had set her down far away enough from the edge that she wouldn't get wet. "Oh." Going a bit red in the face, he added, "Sorry."

Freya laughed.

"Breakfast?" He lifted up the fish he'd caught to show her.

Smiling, she stood up and started to walk over to him.

"Um, Freya, it's a bit-" he began, too late.

She slipped in a patch of mud and slid right into the stream.

"Slippery." Merlin grimaced and bent over to take her hand and help a now completely drenched Freya out of the stream.

They collapsed, laughing uncontrollably until their sides ached, onto the nearest grassy place they'd managed to wade over to.

"You just can't stay out of the water, can you?" teased Merlin. "Getting soaked with rainwater in cages, all your talk of lakes, and now you're throwing yourself into streams."

Giggling, Freya shook her head. "You didn't warn me in time."

"I _tried_," he protested.

"I know." She nodded reassuringly.

"Now where's that fish?" He found his stick and his fish, then quickly piled up some firewood and magically set it ablaze.

Freya warmed herself by the fire while he cooked the fish, which he then handed over to her, using a large green leaf for a plate.

"What about you?"

Merlin shrugged. "I'm not hungry." His stomach growled.

"Liar," said Freya, handing it back to him.

"I'm not eating if you don't eat," he said stubbornly. "Maybe I should go back again and try to catch another one."

"You're tired and wet," Freya insisted. "You caught this one. _You_ eat it."

"Um, no."

"Merlin," she said, flatly, her tone very serious.

"_Freya_," he said back, using the same exact tone, imitating the pitch of her voice perfectly, and cocking his head to one side.

"_Seriously_," she said gently. "You've done enough for me. Eat the fish yourself. I got to sleep in and you didn't."

"All right," Merlin gave in. "How about we share it?" He found a stick and sharpened its dull tip into a cutting point. "Half and half?"

"Half and half," she agreed.

He handed Freya her portion, also having torn the leaf in two to make two plates instead of one.

"_Merlin_!" She made a face at him.

"What?"

"You gave me the bigger half."

"No, I didn't." He _had_, actually, and on purpose, but he wasn't about to admit this and risk her refusing to take it. "They're the same size. Just eat it."

Rolling her eyes, she gave in and ate the fish, having to content herself with the fact that at least he was eating as well, instead of giving up the _whole _fish to her. She thought she would have to keep an eye out for him here. It wouldn't do him any good if he was so focused on looking after her that he forgot to take care of himself while he was at it.

They washed their hands off in the stream, Freya being careful not to fall in this time, and then started walking again.

For the first time, Merlin began to truly wonder where they were going to end up. He couldn't take her to Ealdor, much as he wanted to (he thought his mother would really get on with Freya); he knew, all too well, that that was one of the first places Uther was likely to send guards looking for them. Perhaps he would even force Arthur himself to go there. Whatever the case, Merlin only hoped they wouldn't give his mother too hard a time, pressing her for information about him. Or, worse still, too great a _scare_, telling her he had been sentenced to death as a traitor and then run away with Arthur's wife. Poor Hunith would be frantic with worry, or else (though Merlin didn't like to think too deeply of this possibility, loving his mother as he did and always, no matter how old he grew, wishing to do nothing to disappoint her) overcome with shame, for her fugitive son. And he could send her no messages, not even to let her know he was all right.

So the question remained. Where could they go? Was there a place they could live together where no one would know them?

Freya, in her royal dress, soaked and muddied up though it was from the stream, was unmistakable, Merlin thought, as a princess.

And himself? Wet trousers, disheveled appearance, no belongings or provisions on his person... Was it really such a long jump to the conclusion that he was a runaway servant? And what servant would have more cause to run away than one who'd been sentenced to a beheading at dawn?

One thing was certain; they couldn't go strolling out of the edge of the forest, if they came to it any time soon, in broad daylight, looking as they did.

Perhaps he should have let Kilgharrah take them to the Druid camp after all. Not to stay, but just to beg a change of clothing for Freya and himself. Not that Uther's men wouldn't take two people dressed like Druids straight into Camelot to their king for a handsome reward. And, of course, Uther would have known them then, whatever they wore. So that plan would have been a bit counterproductive anyway.

Merlin thought, then, of those times when Freya had dressed in his clothes. It was too bad the ones he had on were all he had... If only he had one other set of clothing here, they could try and pass for brothers, or at least two commonplace male travelers of no interest at all to the king of Camelot who was looking for his son's former manservant and his daughter-in-law.

"_Merlin_!" Freya gripped his arm and shook it to get his attention. "Look." She pointed at something looming out of a white, smoky mist right before them. What had looked, from a few feet back, to be only more trees, simply younger, not yet grown so tall as those they were surrounded by, was actually an occupied hovel.

The front door opened and a short person with sandy-coloured hair emerged. He looked annoyed, when he first saw two scrappy-looking people coming towards him, perhaps unsure of their motives, thinking them anything from robbers and bandits (for they had no provisions) to smugglers (they could have hidden a caravan full of stolen goods some ways back and only be _pretending_ to be poor beggars).

Then he seemed to recognize them, and grinned with shaky surprise.

"Merlin?" he stammered. "Freya?"

"Gilli!" cried Freya, knowing his voice at once.

Merlin ran forward. "Gilli! I can't _believe_ it! How have you been?"

"Better than you both by the looks of it," said Gilli. "Haven't got much, but it's better than nuffin." He gestured proudly at his hovel. "Come on in."

"We probably should warn you," Merlin said slowly, "that Uther will be very angry with anyone who harbors us. Today was meant to be my execution."

Gilli smirked mischievously. "All the more reason to _welcome _you, I would think. I don't mind betraying _Uther_ in the least."

"Can I ask why you didn't go to the Druids?" Freya wanted to know.

She and Merlin both had to duck to enter the hovel; Gilli, who was shorter, did not.

"I'm working my way there," Gilli told her, walking across the small, dimly-lit room, over to the grate, and stoking the fire he had going there. "They can be hard to find. Besides, I'm a bit nervous about meeting them." He waved in the direction of a couple of three-legged stools on either side of a low, crudely-made wooden table with rough, unsanded edges, and a small deerskin rug. "Please, make yourselves at home."

MEANWHILE, BACK AT Camelot, Arthur sat on the steps of the castle, looking out at the courtyard.

Gwen, coming that way, saw him there, his face darken with gloom, his expression flat and browbeaten.

Barely looking up, he mumbled, "Guinevere."

"Hello, Arthur." She paused. "Sire."

"You can dispense with the 'Sire'," sighed Arthur. "Goodness knows it doesn't mean anything to those it most should."

"Is it _true_?" Gwen asked quietly. "About Merlin and Freya?" Had they really...?

"Oh, yes," Arthur chuckled bitterly. "It most certainly is."

She sat down beside him on the steps. "I'm sorry."

"Father wants me to go after them," he told her. "Go right into houses in the lower town and demand to know if anyone is harboring them."

"And you don't want to," Gwen noted.

"I _should_," Arthur said grimly. "That's just it. Merlin and Freya made their choice; they betrayed me. I should want them dragged back here. Merlin's death-sentence should mean nothing to me."

"That wouldn't be like you," said Gwen, shaking her head. "To feel nothing over the death of a friend. That isn't who you are."

"He's only a _servant_," grunted Arthur.

"So am I," replied Gwen, a little hurt.

"Guinevere..."

"No, it's all right, I-"

"No, it isn't," Arthur insisted, cutting her off. "I didn't mean it. Not like that."

"What _do_ you mean?"

"I don't know anymore." Arthur closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and, exhaling, opened them again. "I don't understand... How can I love someone who's betrayed me?"

"Maybe because," Gwen ventured, a mite shakily, "you understand their feelings better than you think."

"Really?" Arthur arched an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Freya was born to nobility," Gwen started.

She _wasn't_, actually, only a Druid girl under a curse, Arthur now knew, but he didn't correct her.

"Merlin was a servant. _Your _servant."

"Yes, so? What does that have to do with-"

"No matter how they felt," Gwen went on, "they knew nothing could ever happen."

Arthur winced. He was beginning to see where this was headed. The mental picture Gwen was painting for him bore a disturbing and tragic resemblance to his own feelings; for _her_.

"They probably felt just as we...did..." she said sadly, her face suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm and flushed as her voice trailed off. She had almost said _do_, instead, but thought it improper. Technically, Arthur was still a married man; and, no matter what, he'd always be prince, and one day _king_, of Camelot. "Frustrated, because they cared, but it couldn't be. In all ways but one, Merlin_ was _loyal to you."

"If he had such feelings for her," Arthur snapped, sitting up a little straighter, "he damn-well should have had the decency to _say_ something before I did as my father asked and married her!"

"Would you have listened?" Gwen asked, daring to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Of course, I-" Arthur stopped, realizing. Merlin _had_ said something: _Don't marry her... _Please_, Arthur... _He had been blind, all this time. "My God, I can't believe I didn't see it."

"What?" Gwen was a bit lost. "See what?"

"Before the wedding," Arthur told her, rather breathlessly, blinking, "Merlin told me not to marry her. Or tried to. There I was, believing the entire time that he was thinking of _my _happiness, and I only _now _understand what he _really_ meant. How could I have been so _blind_? He wasn't saying I shouldn't marry her because I wasn't in love with her; he was saying I shouldn't marry her because _he_ _was_."

"What are you going to do?"

"I can't disobey my father and just let them be," Arthur said dismally. "It's not only about obeying him anymore. Not now. Camelot will see me as weak if I allow a servant to take my wife." A servant he had, nonetheless, _given_ his wife up to, not to mention _helped_ escape...

"Can't mercy," said Gwen pointedly, gently squeezing his shoulder, "also be considered _strength_?"

"Yes," he agreed. "Absolutely. But not this time. After how far this has all gone. My father... He won't understand why I don't actually _want_ to find them. He'll _never _understand that."

"What are you going to do?"

Arthur shrugged. "Pray for the search parties I'm expected to lead to get delayed by bad weather? _Repeatedly_?"

Gwen cracked a faint, hopeful smile. "Maybe they've already found their way out of Camelot."

"It doesn't really matter if they're in another kingdom," Arthur reminded her. "My father will have them dragged back here, wherever they're spotted." He turned his head to look at her. "Besides, this is _Merlin_ we're talking about. He can't find his own backside most of the time."

Gwen stood up. "I'm sorry," she said, "I really must go. I wasn't minding the hour. Morgana will be wondering where I've been."

Arthur nodded, looking up at her with unmasked adoration. "Of course."

She bobbed a curtsy, careful to maintain her balance on the stone steps.

"Thank you," he called after her. "Guinevere."

"You're welcome...Sire..." she managed, before vanishing behind the castle walls, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts once again.

THE TIME MERLIN spent living with Gilli were to be some of the happiest days of his life.

Given, things were simpler, and, in their way, _harder_, less luxurious, than they had been at the castle, but Merlin was used to hard work, and while he _saw_ a great deal of luxury, in Arthur's chambers and in other parts of the castle, he himself had never really been spoiled with such, so this didn't faze him.

Moreover, Gilli turned out to be a fine host. He made things easier for both Merlin and Freya whenever he could; even going into town and bringing them back some common clothing so they would not stand out so much.

Freya in her brown dress which she often tucked up into a knot, fastened low at her hip, so it didn't snag on brambles as she collected firewood or walked alongside Merlin in the early morning or late twilit hours, and Merlin in a tan-coloured tunic paired with dark brown boots and a dull black scarf, the both of them with dark hair and skin that had browned a little because of all the time they spent in the open, looked a great deal more like rural-bred woodland commoners, or perhaps a pair of deer (from a distance), than they did, respectively, a manservant and a princess.

They lived, for the entire duration of the time they dwelled in the forest, as husband and wife. Merlin and Freya considered themselves such, for Arthur had given her up, perhaps not legally, but he had still done so, and there was also that they'd both drunk from the Druid goblet. The laws of marriage in Camelot no longer applied to them; not there, where the only other person they ever saw was Gilli, who had magic same as they did. It was _his_ hovel, and he had no objections to them behaving as lovers under his roof. He even saw to it that they had their privacy, hanging a long cloth-wall up to divide the part of his hovel they occupied together from his own makeshift bedroom and the shared kitchen, pantry, and grate.

But although they made love rather frequently, no longer burdened with the feeling that this was an act of betrayal and treason, there was little to no chance of Freya coming to be with child from these couplings, for they knew, in the forest, what they had been (much to the dismay of Gaius, Merlin recalled) largely ignorant of in Camelot. Namely, they knew which herbs Freya could grind into seasonings that, when poured over her meals, would prevent her from becoming pregnant. Merlin, who the first time they had been together, mistakenly and unexpectedly, had not even known such herbs _existed_, came to know them by sight, just as Freya (and, surprisingly enough, Gilli, though he'd never used them) did. It helped somewhat that, back in Camelot, he had, after it was brought to his attention that there _were _in fact such herbs, done a little research (via books in the castle library) on his own when Gaius wasn't watching him like a hawk. He hadn't learned _much_ that way, but it had been far more of a help than a hinder in the long run. Most of the herbs looked enough like the drawings in those books to be easily identified.

To be sure, it was not that Merlin and Freya were particularly opposed to the idea of having a child. Both would have been good and, true to form, _willing _parents, loving whatever child they'd made together. Freya even thought (and was probably right) that Merlin would have been rather the doting young father, had a baby of theirs been conceived and brought into the world. However, living as fugitives, they didn't see how they could look after themselves _and_ a baby. Not to mention they would be giving Gilli another permanent houseguest in his small hovel. Freya and Merlin felt that they didn't need much; food, blankets, and a roof over their heads was good enough for them so long as they had each other, but a baby would need more room. Also, in truth, they were a little afraid that a baby born of a warlock and a Druid had the potential to be a little too..._special_...to be safe in a world where Uther Pendragon had outlawed magic.

Who knew, even, if Freya's curse was capable of passing itself on to her offspring?

For the two of them, though, they no longer had to hide their magic any more than they hid their love for each other. They found, with time, that they _could_ speak (as Mordred had spoken to Merlin) to each other in their heads. Gilli sometimes would see them staring at each other, smiling a bit _too_ broadly, and would gather that perhaps it was not a good time to slip on his magic ring, lest he unwittingly eavesdrop on what was clearly a very private conversation.

One day, Merlin came into the hovel, in high spirits, humming to himself as he dropped a fresh log that smelled strongly of pine when it burned into the grate and stoked up the previously dying embers.

Gilli watched him, quietly, holding a rectangular object in his hands that he wanted to show him.

Merlin turned, feeling Gilli's eyes on his back. "Yes?"

Gilli's brow furrowed. "What's that around your neck?"

Merlin paused, looking equally confused for a moment, trying to figure out what Gilli was referring to. Then he remembered, and laughed. "Oh...uh..." He had a necklace of acorn cups, which he was wearing over his scarf. He supposed it _did_ look a bit funny, but he didn't care. "Freya... She made it for me."

Gilli chose, perhaps wisely, not to comment on that. "There's something I've got to show you."

"What is it?"

He handed him the object, wrapped in a covering of burlap and, under that, silk.

"What on earth...?" Merlin, pulling back the silk, discovered it was a _book_, leather-bound and with the impression of a great oak tree on its cover.

"I was diggin' for truffles," Gilli explained, awkwardly reaching behind himself and scratching at the back of his neck. "Under this really old oak tree. I know it's supposed to be sacred, to Druids or whoever, to_ our_ kind, I guess, but I thought it wouldn't disturb anything, just going under the earth a little..."

Merlin nodded. "And you found this."

"It belonged to a priestess of the Old Religion."

He opened the book and looked inside. "_Nimueh_," he murmured, flipping through it.

"Did you know her?"

Merlin winced. "I almost wish I could say no."

"Where is she now?"

"Dead," said Merlin. "I killed her. A long time ago."

"Why?" Gilli seemed puzzled by this. "If she had magic like you and-"

"She was selfish," Merlin explained, "and cruel. She led me to think I was giving up my own life for Arthur's, then she tried to take my mother's. Gaius couldn't stand my distress over this; he knew I was going to ask Nimueh to take my life in place of my mother's. He wanted her to take _his_ in my place. And she did."

"She was _old_," stated Gilli, suddenly.

"She never looked it," said Merlin. "I guess that was her magic; she could look any way she wanted. But how did you know she was old?"

"In the book," said Gilli, "she refers to Uther as a young man. Must've been some time ago. He's changed some from her description now."

Merlin's eyes widened. "She talks about _Uther_ in this?"

Gilli nodded.

He flipped a few more pages. Then, when his eyes fell on something he simply couldn't believe, he stopped. No matter how many times he read it, it didn't seem _real_. If it was true, Uther was even more of a hypocrite than he'd realized. Nimueh, he was sure, had been a liar enough times in her life, but he somehow doubted she would lie in her own journal, hidden away where she expected no one to find it. No one was meant to disturb the sacred ground of that particular oak; it had been Gilli's blunder that unearthed this long-kept secret.

"He is such a _hypocrite_," murmured Merlin.

"Who is?" Freya, walking into the hovel carrying some flowers which she placed down on the table, asked.

"Uther," answered Gilli.

"What's he done now?" Freya asked, arranging the flowers.

"I think," said Merlin, holding up the book, "that he had an affair with Nimueh, when Arthur's mother was barren."

"Wait," said Freya slowly, "not the same Nimueh who Uther blames for _taking_ his wife from him when Arthur was born? The same one you-"

Merlin nodded grimly. "That's her." He closed the book and put it down on a stool, looking at the little sparks shooting up from the log burning in the grate. "I can't believe he was going to kill me and send you to a nunnery, when _he_..." He shook his head. "I guess he thinks it's different because he's a king and I was just a servant."

"Arthur would be furious," Freya said. "If he knew."

"I don't know if he ever should," Merlin mulled, troubled. "If I ever see him again, how I can I tell him about this? He almost _killed_ Uther when Morgause convinced him he was responsible for his mother's death. If he knew Uther betrayed her, with _Nimueh_ of all people..." He didn't think he could do that to him, but the temptation was still there, and very strong.

Freya left the flowers alone and put a hand on Merlin's arm. She understood. Happy as they were, sometimes she would find Merlin sitting in front of the hovel, looking out at nothing, lost in thought. She would try to speak to him, to bring him back, but she knew where his heart was at such times; it was back in Camelot, worrying about Arthur, as it always had. He missed him, and feared for him.

Once, when she tried to talk to him about it, Merlin had told her, very quietly, as if he was ashamed to speak of it, that, often, at night, he had two dreams that fought each other. One held everything he ever wanted. In it, he was safe, completely normal, unburdened by magic, living in Ealdor, never having left it. Freya was there, as was his mother, and his dead friend William, full of life again, and his father, Balinor, also alive and well because he was not a Dragonlord in this dream. They were impossibly happy together, their lives simple, and good. But then there was another dream, one where all that was lost; William was dead again, his mother far away, Freya nowhere in sight, and his father dead as well, having died, as in real life, protecting him. Yet, in that dream, he was Arthur's advisor. In that dream, they united the land of Albion together. At the end of both dreams, which seemed to fight for his attention, forcing their way into each other through mists and fogs, so that he might walk from one straight into the other without knowing it until the fog lifted and it was too late to turn back around, Merlin would see Kilgharrah, who asked him what it was he wanted. And, looking back at both lives, both of which held everything and yet nothing, shrouded in a painful mix of perfection and loss, he would whisper, brokenly, "I don't know."

MERLIN FELT A hand frantically shaking him awake. Opening his eyes, he saw Gilli, holding a stub of candle in the hand he hadn't been shaking him with.

"Gilli?" He sat up. "What's wrong?"

"Shh..." His eyes darted to Freya, still asleep beside Merlin. "Wake her and make sure she comes quietly. You've got to hide. They're coming."

"Who?" whispered Merlin.

"Uther's men," muttered Gilli. "I couldn't sleep, went for a walk. I've just seen them, coming this way. They've finally taken to searching the forest."

Gilli's hovel was the only house for miles. "They'll be coming here."

"Yes. Get up."

"Freya." He shook her arm.

"What?"

"Uther's men are coming."

"Where can we go?" She got up, with Merlin, still groggy, following Gilli under the cloth-wall and into the warmer room in front of the grate.

Gilli knelt down, moving the deerskin rug to reveal a trapdoor.

Merlin's eyebrows went up, impressed; in all the time he had been living in Gilli's hovel, he hadn't had the foggiest idea that was there.

"Quick, get in," said Gilli. "They won't know to look down here." He was wearing his ring. Slipping it off, he pressed it into Freya's palm. "Here. Look after that for me." It wouldn't do for Uther's men to, in their search for Freya and Merlin, find a ring with a seal of the Old Religion and arrest _him _on a charge of sorcery.

Merlin hopped down into the space under the trapdoor. It was a fairly shallow fall, which made his legs smart like mad upon impact, despite the fact that he'd landed on his feet, but aside from that he had no trouble getting in.

Gilli helped Freya down, handing her to Merlin so she wouldn't have to jump. Once she was safely in there with him, Merlin wrapped his arms protectively around her.

When Gilli shut them in, it was almost completely dark, the whole space swallowed up in pitch blackness, except for the few slates of moving yellow firelight that made their way through the grooves in the wood, softened in hue by the, hastily replaced, heavy deerskin, each of these sparse sliding light-beams thinner even than a young child's little finger.

Above them, there came a great pounding, like an urgent knock at the door, followed by footsteps and jingling chainmail.

Freya felt her breathing grow heavier with anxiety. They couldn't find them _now_! She couldn't go back and live behind castle (or nunnery) walls; not after this new life had wrapped itself so lovingly around her. How could she cope with coldness and duty again when she had known nothing but love and simple joys since coming to live in the forest? And how could she watch them haul Merlin, who she considered, under the laws of nature, magic, and the Druids (ostracized from them though she was), her husband, to his death, calling him a traitor? She wasn't Arthur's. Whatever they said, that was no longer her husband's name. No prince owned her anymore. She cared about Arthur, but he was not hers and she was not his.

Voices carried on, insisting Gilli stand aside and let them search through everything. They demanded to know why one part of the hovel was screened-off by the cloth-wall, and Gilli muttered something about his having the right to decorate his own home whichever way he saw fit. They grudgingly conceded, after shoving the wall aside, almost tearing it down in the process, and finding no one in the bed behind it.

A voice that had, till then, been completely silent, letting the other men go on as they would, tiredly said, apologetically, to Gilli, "I am sorry to have bothered you, especially at such an inconvenient hour. My father gave us orders to search everywhere." He must have signaled for the men to stop rummaging through Gilli's belongings and head for the door, because a great deal of the rustling and knocking down of objects Merlin and Freya heard below finally ceased. "There's no one else here. We will leave now."

It was, unmistakably, the voice of Arthur Pendragon.

A slate of light flickered across Freya's face, and Merlin saw her expression when Arthur spoke. For the first time since leaving the castle, he felt a brief surge of insecurity as to Freya's feelings for him. Was it possible that, though he'd never seen it, nor thought it of her, Freya had fallen in love with Arthur somewhere in all the confusion?

It was absurd, of course, but that didn't stop him, after they'd gotten out of the trapdoor and returned to their bed behind the (now rather dilapidated) cloth-wall, from asking.

"Freya?" His voice quivered slightly.

"Yes, Merlin?"

"Your face... When you heard Arthur's voice..." He swallowed hard, almost afraid to ask, lest the answer hurt them both. "Freya, do you love him?"

Freya sighed. "I do, Merlin. But not any more or less, or_ differently_, than _you_ do." She was not _in_ love with him, but, like everyone else in Camelot, she couldn't help loving him as a future monarch-and a _friend_.

And, same as Merlin did, innocently as a certain former manservant of Camelot missed the company of his master, she missed _her_ friend, too.


	19. Lamia

~Chapter nineteen: Lamia~

MERLIN WOKE ALONE, reaching out, by way of habit, his eyes still closed, for Freya, who was not there. When his hand and arm made contact with nothing but air and, seconds later, empty blankets, his eyes shot open.

"Freya?" he murmured, looking about. He crinkled his forehead. "All right, apparently I'm alone."

"Merlin?" Gilli's voice came from the other side of the cloth-wall. "You all right in there?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Merlin. "Is Freya out there with you?"

"No," answered Gilli, sounding surprised. "She isn't with _you_, then?"

He pulled back the cloth-wall and ducked under it. "No."

"Well, I saw her go out, earlier, but it only looked like she was getting a bit of air," Gilli explained. "I thought she'd be back by now."

"Something's wrong." Merlin went out of the hovel and searched around the outside of it and the closest of the trees.

Gilli waited, by the door, until he returned, less than ten minutes later, looking pale and frightened.

"She's not here," said Merlin, swallowing at an anxious lump in his throat.

"But she never goes far from the hovel if you're not with her," Gilli pointed out. "_Never_. She's too scared the guards will be in the forest again and capture her. She's said so enough times."

"I know," Merlin whispered. "That's what frightens me." He put his hand to the (by then, rather cracked and brittle) necklace of acorn cups Freya had made for him. "I have to go find her."

"Here." Gilli handed him a sword. "Take that with you, then. In case you need to defend yourself."

"Thank you." Merlin nodded appreciatively, taking the sword from him.

"Be careful, yeah? The guards could be out there searching for you _and _Freya."

"I will be. I promise." He slipped a small, brown leather satchel over his shoulder and headed back out the door.

He vanished into a grove and Gilli watched him go, somewhat apprehensively, little knowing, all the same, that his friend would never return to the hovel.

It was the end of those happy times, come upon them like a thief in the early morning without warning. Other times of happiness might come to pass, as the years went on, but Freya and Merlin would never again live the life together they'd had in the forest with Gilli. That life, so treasured and perfect and loving, was over.

Merlin spent all day searching the forest and never found so much as a_ trace_ of Freya. Not even footprints or a scrap of cloth torn from her dress. It was as if she had just disappeared into thin air.

When the dusk came, tears sprung up into Merlin's eyes. What if he never found her? What if it was too late?

He was several miles away from Gilli's hovel when he heard sniffling. A dark-haired girl sat, with her back to him, crying into her hands, knees pulled to her chest.

"Freya?" he called.

She looked up. "Merlin?"

Her voice... Something was off about it. Also, in spite of the fact that he was getting nearer and she could see him more clearly, her tone suggested she was addressing a _stranger_, someone she had perhaps expected to meet but had never seen before, not that she actually _recognized_ him.

But, he decided, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he'd found her and she was all right.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," panted Merlin. "I've been so worried."

"I thought you might never find me," she whimpered.

Something in the back of his head felt like it was being grated, pulled against the wrong way. The girl in front of him _had_ to be Freya, even in the dark he could tell _that_ much, but she sounded, for lack of a better term, _awful_.

Was she coming down with something?

But, then again, her voice didn't sound raspy, or faded, it just didn't sound like _her_...

"I went for a walk," she went on, "and I got lost. I was so scared..."

Merlin came closer.

"Thank you, Mer-" That was when he stuck out his hand, almost making contact with her. She let out a piercing shriek of a scream, stopping mid-word.

Merlin blinked; that was _not _Freya's scream. Nor would Freya have screamed at his trying to touch her.

Strangely enough, he felt repelled from _her_, too. It was an almost _magical _repelling, something deep inside of him pushing her away, as if for his own protection. He couldn't explain it; there was no reason for it. He loved Freya and was relieved beyond all reason that he'd found her again, and that she was unharmed, but that horrid feeling that something was just not _right_ lingered.

She composed herself and, while there was still a dark gleam of something that might have been fear, or else _annoyance_, in her eyes, she stopped trying to get away from him.

"We should make camp here for the night," Merlin told her, magically lighting some firewood and settling down.

She glared at him when she saw him light the wood. A small, strangled sound came out of her throat, as if she were holding back a snarl or, more likely, a hiss. But, nonetheless, she settled down obediently, a few feet away from the fire.

When he sprawled out on the ground to sleep, Merlin found himself putting Gilli's sword between his body and that of the girl he believed to be Freya. If pressed, he couldn't have explained it, but he couldn't shake the desire to keep as far away from her as possible.

And, if it was any consolation, 'Freya' had no objections to this, either. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen someone look at him with such strong, albeit repressed, contempt.

MIDNIGHT CAME AND Merlin waited, expecting Freya to change into a Bastet. But the girl lying by his side didn't change, didn't even _stir_. He stared down at her, baffled. A cloud passed over the moon and a flickering change of light caused him to see a different face; the girl, though she had dark hair and a wide-set forehead, was _not _Freya.

It hurt his eyes, at first, causing a light burning at the very back of them, trying to look at her and see her for what she really was, but his suspicions, coupled with his magic, were showing him this girl...or _creature_...whatever she was...with her _true_ face. It was a glamour, an enchantment of some kind, that had made her look, in the darkness, like his beloved Freya.

She sat up, and, though she still seemed disgusted, reached for him, as if to draw him nearer and kiss him.

Merlin reached for Gilli's sword and kept her at arm's length. "Who are you?"

"Lamia. My name is Lamia."

"Why did you look like Freya?" he demanded.

"It was Morgause." She scowled. "She told me there was a servant boy who used to work for Prince Arthur of Camelot. She put an enchantment on me, she said, so that he'd think I was somebody else. I didn't think I needed it, but she insisted."

"Why did she send you to find me?" snarled Merlin.

"To kill you," simpered Lamia, as if it were obvious.

"You won't find me such easy prey," Merlin told her. "Now that I see who you are, you can't fool me again."

"Morgause didn't tell me you had magic." Lamia pouted. "I would have never come if I'd known."

"That would be because she doesn't know," said Merlin. "And I plan to keep it that way." He held the sword up a little higher. "Where's Freya?"

"How should I know?" grunted Lamia, waving that off impatiently. "Morgause took her."

"_Morgause_ has her?" he gasped.

Lamia seemed irritated by his questions. "Yes, yes. Stop pestering me."

"No," said Merlin, glowering darkly, "I won't. You will take me to her right now, Lamia, or so help me I will bother you with my magic until the end of time."

"Your pathetic little trick-magic is _flawed_," said Lamia, snorting. "You wouldn't have believed I was Freya if it wasn't. Your magic would have seen through what Morgause did. You were so determined to find her that, even _with_ magic, you couldn't see what was right in front of you."

"Maybe so. But I see you _now_," growled Merlin, taking a step closer, still holding out Gilli's sword threateningly. "So what _does_ it matter?"

"Do you honestly think I'm scared of you?"

"You screamed when I first came near you," he pointed out.

"Your magic holds no fear for me," said Lamia, rather indignantly. "I could've killed you any time I wished."

"Then," he said, slowly, "what _are_ you waiting for?"

Lamia took a step back and stuck out her chin in a swift motion like that of a snake when it strikes; her eyes glowed green, magically flinging Merlin back against a tree.

He let out a groan of pain and propped himself up onto his elbows, his eyes locking on the sword he had dropped upon impact. "_Þurhdrif hie ecg_!" The sword lifted itself into the air, soared like an arrow released from an archer's bowstring, and embedded itself right into Lamia's abdomen.

Standing upright, sore and stiff, Merlin bent over to look at the crumpled, injured Lamia; she was resting in a fetal position, her fingers wrapped lightly round the blade of the sword he had impaled her with.

But before Merlin could even think what to do next, she shape-shifted into a hideous monster with snaky eyes and sharp teeth and fourteen long tentacles.

Merlin ducked and pulled out Gilli's sword from the middle of the creature.

It attacked him.

He threw himself out of the way, then charged back, dealing the creature another blow.

If Lamia had changed from her human form into that of the monstrous creature _before_ Merlin initially wounded her in the stomach with Gilli's sword, he would probably not have won; if the guards or knights of Camelot ever found him, it would have been his corpse they stumbled upon. But, luckily, the wound delayed her reactions and strengths just enough so that, with fighting and defensive magic, he was able to come out victorious.

In the end, Lamia was dead, thankfully not turning back into a girl upon death, which would have been, Merlin felt, a bit grotesque. Not to say, of course, that the creature with four of its fourteen slimy gray tentacles chopped off, blood-stained, and its tongue hanging out of its gaping, lifeless mouth was _not_, but still.

Merlin sustained a shoulder-wound that made him grimace as he used his scarf to bind it. Still wincing, he picked up Gilli's sword and cleaned it off as best he could.

Now, though, he had a problem; without Lamia, who wouldn't have been much help to begin with, since she'd claimed not to know, he had no idea where to look for Morgause and, by default, Freya.

Lost, in pain, and utterly miserable, he trudged along. Night became day again and he kept walking, his feet sore, one of them bleeding, though he didn't realize it until he saw the red drops spilling out of a hole he'd gotten in his boot while fighting Lamia.

Groaning, he almost sat down on the ground to take off the boot and figure out what he was meant to do next, when he heard a scream and a jingling noise.

What gave him hope, this time, was that the scream _did_ sound like Freya.

"Freya?" he shouted, getting up, limping on his hurt foot. "Freya? Where are you?"

_Merlin? _her voice called back, not aloud, but in his head. _Merlin... Can you hear me?_

"Yes!" he cried out. "Can you hear _me_?"

_Yes..._

"Come towards my voice," said Merlin. "I can't see you."

_I can't... My ankle's chained to a tree..._

"Freya, I need you to tell me where you are!"

_Your voice is coming from my right..._

He breathed a sigh of relief; for she had prevented him from going to the left and ending up further away from her.

_I can see you now..._

"Freya!" he cried, for he could see _her_, too, only a few feet away, tugging at the chain that bound her ankle to the tree in a fruitless attempt to run to him.

"Merlin!"

He ran towards her, stopping short once they stood face to face. For a flickering doubtful moment, he worried that this was another trick he was falling for due to his desperation to find her. "Is it really you?"

She nodded.

He threw his arms around her. "I was so worried." Pulling away from her, he gestured at the chain. "Did Morgause do this to you?"

"Yes," said Freya, looking like she was trying not to cry. "There was a girl made of the Old Religion with her, when she took me. One of the Lamia. Creatures created by the High Priestesses in the old days by combining the blood of a girl and a serpent together." Her voice quivered. "Morgause said she was going to send the girl to kill you."

"It's all right," Merlin told her, stroking the side of her face comfortingly. "Lamia's dead. I dealt her a mortal blow." He kissed her. "Here. Let me get you out of this chain. Where is Morgause now?"

"She left me here yesterday," Freya told him. "She didn't think you would survive your meeting with Lamia."

"I almost didn't," Merlin admitted, examining the chain. "I thought she was _you_, at first."

"The chain is magic," Freya warned him.

"Then I'll just have to use magic to _break_ it." Merlin shrugged. "_Unspene þás mægþ_." Nothing happened. Maybe that only worked with ordinary chains. "_Min strengest miht hate þe tospringan_!"

The chain sparkled, and a grinding sound emanated from the metal, but it did not break.

"Merlin," whispered Freya, shaking her head, "it's no use. The chain's too strong."

"Look!" shouted someone headed their way. "I think it's _them_!"

Merlin glanced over his shoulder to see what looked like Uther's men, running toward them. "Oh no."

"Run!" Freya told him, trying to pull the chain out of his hands. "It's _you_ they want dead. You have to go."

"No," said Merlin hoarsely; "I'm not leaving you here."

"Please go," she begged.

He repeated the incantation.

"It doesn't _work_," she insisted, her eyes widening as the guards drew nearer. "_Go_."

Once more, he repeated it, _screaming_ it this time, caring not at all if the guards heard him using magic.

The chain broke apart into metal splinters and Freya was free.

Merlin smiled and grabbed her hand. "Come on."

"You're _hurt_!" Freya noticed, feeling his limp slowing them down.

"Never mind that, just keep running!"

"They'll catch us!"

"No, they won't," Merlin insisted, forcing out a tone of confidence he did not actually feel. "We're going to lose them."


	20. The Lady of the Lake

~Chapter twenty: The Lady of the Lake~

THEY DID NOT lose them. The guards pursued them onwards, almost catching up several times, until finally they came to a dead-end; namely, the lake of Avalon. They were surrounded on all sides, with no place else to run. Merlin stationed himself protectively in front of Freya, but that was bound to do little good if a guard knocked him out with the hilt of a sword and hauled him back to Camelot to be publicly beheaded.

Or perhaps he would merely run him through right then and there and take Freya back to Uther.

Freya looked at the lake, then back at Merlin, tears shining in her eyes. "Merlin..."

"What?"

"This is where we always end up having to say goodbye, isn't it?" She forced a faint, bittersweet smile through her tears and sniffles.

Merlin blinked back tears of his own, remembering. She had died here, in his arms, and he'd put her on that boat...

That was _it_! A _boat_! Merlin had an idea; looking over his shoulder, he scanned the water for any abandoned boats, finding only an unusually lengthened coracle, trapped in a patch of reeds. Using magic, he caused the boat to drift over to them. It was small, obviously built for a child or else a dwarf of some kind, but long enough so that he and Freya could both fit.

As Uther's men rushed forward from all directions save for the lake itself, Merlin hopped into the boat. "Quick, Freya, get in." He took her hand and helped her in after him. "_Astyre._" His eyes glowed and the coracle began to drift towards the middle of the lake, out of the reach of the guards left behind on land.

"We can't stay on the lake forever," Freya whispered.

"I know," said Merlin. "But Uther's men can't wait on the banks of it forever, either."

"Merlin, we don't have long." Freya looked nervously over the edge of the coracle.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"This boat wasn't made to fit two people," Freya said, swallowing.

It was true; while the boat was certainly _long _enough for them both to fit comfortably, it wasn't built to hold up the weight of two grown persons. Two small children, easily enough, it could have managed, but even with how slender life in the forest had kept them, Merlin and Freya were too heavy for the structure of the little boat.

"I'll get out," Merlin decided, noticing how low the wood of the boat was going. Soon enough, water would start coming in, if the sides kept sinking at that rate. "I can tread water."

"_No_, Merlin!" Freya gripped his arm and shook her head. "It's too deep. And this isn't an ordinary lake. You know that. Camelot still needs you, even if Arthur doesn't realize it yet. You have a destiny. It's _you_ we've got to keep safe."

"No, I have to look after you," he insisted, lowering his brow. "Like I promised you I would. Besides, I'm heavier."

"You _have_ looked after me," Freya said, smiling at him tenderly. "Better than anyone else ever has." She kissed him goodbye on the lips. "I love you."

"Freya, don't..." Merlin pleaded. "I beg you..."

She remembered what the Great Dragon had said to her: _You too may now have a part to play in this destiny of Merlin's and the new turns it has taken... You must, when the time comes, accept and deal with the _true_ meaning of this and its medium, the way in which it _must_ occur, no matter what the cost... Lady of the Lake..._ And now, her heart pounding in her chest, feeling as if it was going to break into a thousand pieces because of the way Merlin was looking at her, pleading with her not to leave him, she understood. It was painful, but it must be done. It was the only way to save Merlin and, in another way she was beginning to understand, she thought, maybe just a little, to help Arthur become the king he was meant to be.

Freya flung herself over the side of the coracle.

Merlin lunged and grabbed onto her hands. "No!"

The coracle swayed, water splashed in. Aside from her hands, cramped fingers still clinging lightly to the side, held in place by Merlin, Freya was already entirely in the water.

"Let go," she said softly.

"No..." He shook his head. "I'm not going to lose you again."

"You will never lose me," Freya told him, looking into his eyes. "No matter where I am, no matter what I do or who I see, my loyalty and love will _always_ be on your side. It will lie with you forever."

Feebly, he clung to his fingers, unwilling and unable to let go. "I don't want you to go."

"I'll be all right," she said, breathlessly. "I grew up by a lake, remember? When I was a little girl, I used to play a game with my family, to see who could hold their breath the longest underwater."

"Freya, this isn't-"

"I always won." She smiled at him.

"There has to be some other way. We can go back to the shore, somehow, and fight off..." His voice trailed off; Merlin knew, with increasing and unbearably painful certainty, how hopeless it was. Only one of them could stay in the coracle, the other had to get out and, presumably, sink to the bottom of the lake.

"You were right," she said, "about me not being able to stay out of the water."

"Freya..."

"Don't worry about me," she tried to reassure him, one last time. "I can hold my breath longer than _anyone_." With that, she let go, her wet fingers slipping out of Merlin's fumbling grasp, giving him no chance either to consent or hold on stubbornly.

"_Freya_!" he shouted after her, sobbing, looking over the edge at the expanding, ring-shaped ripples as she sank down.

The last he saw of her was her right hand, staying above the water, shimmering like crystal-coloured samite from the reflection of water-droplets on her arm and wrist, and then, just like that, soundlessly, she was gone.

She was a strong swimmer; growing up by a lake, he knew she _must _be, and Merlin held on, foolishly, for a few minutes before he gave into despair completely, to the hope that she would resurface any moment.

When she did not, he succumbed to the numb, empty feeling growing deep inside of him. Tears streamed down his face as he pulled himself away from the edge of the coracle, sitting up in the middle, staring blankly at the horizon.

Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Merlin had lost everything he cared about; both Arthur and Freya, it seemed, were out of his life forever. He did not see how he could get either of them back again. Freya, doubtless, was drowned, and Arthur would never be able, at least as long as Uther had any say in the matter, to welcome him back in Camelot even if he _wanted_ to. He had _nothing_. Nothing left to live for.

In fit of momentary madness, Merlin almost flung himself out of the coracle and into the water, thinking he would rather die with Freya than go on living as a fugitive on his own. But, then, he was distracted by something unexpected; Uther's men, previously gathered at the shoreline, were leaving. He was alone. Sighing, he allowed himself to lie on the bottom of the coracle in a fetal position, eyes half-closed, drifting aimlessly. He was bitterly cold, going quite numb, outside as well as in, but he didn't care.

And so he stayed, for a few hours, floating.

How much time had gone by, Merlin had no idea; it was only hours, but for him it might as well have been minutes, or days, or weeks, months, even _years_, and it would have meant precious little to him in the state he was in.

Then there came a voice, from the shore. "Merlin!"

Merlin opened his eyes and sat up in the coracle. He could make out the hazy figure of a prince clad in chainmail standing at the edge of the lake, his hands cupped around his mouth.

He knew that voice. "Arthur?"

"Merlin!" he called again.

"Ar-_thur_!" he called back, louder.

"Merlin, come ashore!"

Was it safe? What about Uther? The guards weren't there, but could it be a trap? Could they be waiting in ambush somewhere, ready to come out again at Arthur's signal? Would Arthur really do that to him? Could he hate him so much as that?

Merlin closed his eyes and thought deeply. He thought of the first day he and Arthur had met, how he'd thought him such a prat back then; he thought of how he had saved his life and been appointed his manservant; he remembered all that they had made it through together; he remembered how many times he'd saved Arthur's life; and, lastly, he remembered the look on Arthur's face when he had walked in on him and Freya kissing in his chambers.

_I trust him_, he realized, exhaling and opening his eyes.

Wisely or not, he _did_, really and truly, after all was said and done, still trust Arthur. He trusted Arthur to do the right thing, whatever that might be. He and Arthur were two halves of a whole; they had a destiny to fulfill, and neither could do it alone. Merlin's betrayal had not ended that. Deep down, Arthur knew Merlin cared about him, had never_ really_ meant to hurt him, to make him look the fool. And Merlin had to let himself believe that, whatever else happened, Arthur would remember all the same things he himself had, and spare his life when he set foot on the shore.

"_Coming_, Sire!" Using his magic, Merlin allowed the coracle to head for land.

Less than a mile away from the shoreline, when Arthur's face became clear to him, Merlin knew there was something he must make sure of before they met up again. He had made up his mind; Arthur did _not_ need to know about his father's infidelity. Nimueh's journal, which happened to be among the few items in his satchel, need never be read by him-or anybody else.

Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out the leather-bound book and dropped it down into the water.

It would stay down there, undisturbed from now on; the past must lie at the bottom of the lake of Avalon, rather than threaten the way Arthur viewed Uther. Nimueh was dead, and Uther, too, was not going to live _forever_.

In order for Albion to rise, things needed to change. Change could not occur when one clung to the past. Painful as it might be, there were some things better off buried, so that the knowledge of them could not harm future generations.

Merlin wondered, even, if, one day, the Great Purge itself might be buried, so that no one need remember again. Or, maybe, it would be the opposite. Perhaps people would need to know about it to understand why it must never happen again.

Whatever the case, whether the answer to the disastrous past be increasing knowledge or ignorance, he must be ready, begin taking the steps that would frame those of the once and future king in whose shadow he himself would likely walk until his dying day.

When Merlin stepped off the coracle and onto the land, the ground felt as if it were pitching up and down, and he nearly fell face-first, unsteady on his feet, but Arthur caught him.

"Thank you."

Arthur nodded. "You're welcome."

"Am I still under a death-sentence?" Merlin asked.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Arthur said, wearily.

It was then that Merlin noticed Arthur looked tired, like he hadn't been sleeping well, and that his eyes were rimmed with red. "Arthur, what happened?"

"It's my father," he told him.

"Uther," breathed Merlin, eyes wide. "He's not..."

"Dead?" Arthur shuddered. "Thankfully not. But he suffered a bad fever about a week ago, Merlin. It's driven him insane. It's... it's like he's not even _there_ anymore. Or his mind isn't. He's an invalid."

"I am so sorry," Merlin told him sincerely.

"The guards came and reported to me that they found you, but that you went out to the middle of the lake and they couldn't follow." Arthur looked out at the lake of Avalon, then back at Merlin. "When I heard... I decided to come myself."

"You want me to come back to Camelot with you?" Merlin double-checked, as if to be sure.

He nodded. "I have clothes that need washing and mending and horses whose stalls need mucking out."

"You're_ pardoning_ me?"

"I'll find a way," Arthur sighed. "I think I've become far too tired to chop off the heads of everyone who's ever wronged me in one way or another."

"You _do _look tired," Merlin admitted.

"Where's Freya?" Arthur started to look around for her, having expected her to be with Merlin.

"She's gone," he whispered, nearly choking. "She's..." Dead? Drowned? Went under the water and never came back up? Did all three answers even truly mean the same?

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, folding his arms across his chest and fighting against another exhausted shudder, as though he suddenly felt a chill. "I know what she meant to you."

"There's something you need to know," Merlin said. "Especially now that Uther..."

"What is it?"

"It's Morgana." He hoped he would believe him, hard though it might be. "She's the traitor in our midst. She's been conspiring with Morgause. Now that Uther's taken sick, I think she might try to take the kingdom from you."

"Merlin," snorted Arthur, "don't be ridiculous."

"She has magic, like me, but..." He ground his teeth together, trying to find the right words. "But she hasn't used it for good. She's so _bitter_. Morgana isn't the same person she used to be. I wanted to tell you, but with everything, and she threatened me... I'm sorry. After Morgause took her, she never needed rescuing. Not really. She played us all. That year we spent looking for her was for _nothing_; it was no accident we found her. Everything... It was all part of Morgause's plan."

"I've known Morgana all my life," said Arthur flatly. "Why would she do this to me?"

"I know it's hard to believe." Merlin reached out and touched the side of his arm. "But _look_ at me. Do you honestly think I'm lying about this?"

Merlin _did_ look honest; much as Arthur wanted to, he couldn't deny it. He was losing his father to insanity, the last thing he needed was to lose someone else by learning they were playing the traitor. What was the measure of a traitor anyway? Was it someone like Morgana, who Merlin would have him believe deceived him? Or it was it someone like Merlin himself, who'd kept so many secrets from him?

But he had a choice to make. He could show some trust in a friend who had been loyal in all ways but one, or he could deny him, insist he must have misunderstood, or even simply call him a liar to his face.

It was a grievous task, but the prince of Camelot had made up his mind.

"If you're telling the truth," said Arthur, slowly, nodding and starting to walk away from the lake, gesturing that Merlin should come with him, "we will most likely have the fight of our lives on our hands." Morgana had never done anything halfway in her life; if she was going to betray them and take over Camelot, it would be no small movement on her part.

"Can I catch up with you in a moment?" Merlin asked, hesitant to leave the lake of Avalon so abruptly after what had happened.

"You're not going to vanish in a cloud of smoke, or whatever it is you sorcerers do when you want to hide, are you?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

Merlin cracked a half-smile. "No. Nothing like that. I promise."

"All right," said Arthur. "But don't leave me standing out here in this cold for too long or I may change my mind about letting you back into my service."

"I understand, Sire."

Merlin looked back at the lake, thinking of Freya. As glad as he was to be reunited with Arthur and forgiven for his betrayal, he couldn't help but feel immensely sad over how pointlessly she had died. For absolutely no reason, the world had lost the most beautiful person he'd ever known to have existed in it; _twice_.

If _he_ was being spared, it likely meant Freya would have been, too. If only they had _known_, when they first saw those guards, that Uther was an invalid and Arthur, who might be more inclined to show mercy on their behalf, was now in charge...

And what would happen now? Would Arthur really be able to accept that he had magic? Would he trust him, knowing what he really was? Or would he grow resentful or suspicious of him in the future? And what about the _near_ future? What about Morgana? Merlin had no idea how he would ever defeat her.

Once again, hopelessness seized his heart.

That was when a white arm sprung up from the water, holding aloft the finest sword that Gwen's father had ever made, the very sword that had been forged in Kilgharrah's breath and then hidden at the bottom of the lake, where Merlin threw it, to protect it from being used for evil by Uther or by anybody else.

As if by fate itself gently tugging at him and crying out, "Look, look! What do you see?" Merlin knew what the sword would be called when the stories of King Arthur were told, long after all of them had passed on.

_Excalibur_.

That was what they would call it.

But Merlin would call it something else. To him, it had only one name, and that name was _Hope_.

Hope that they could defeat Morgana. Hope that Arthur would rise up against everything that put itself in his way and stand firm, as the king he was always meant to become.

Hope, brightest of all, that true love never died. Hope that, very soon, the day would be upon Merlin when he would come back to this lake and Freya, his lady waiting for him beneath the waves, would rise up and give him the sword, knowing that in his hands and Arthur's it had the power to save Albion.

That would be their chance to see each other again. And he would count the moments, the seconds, the breaths he would take in and out, until that moment.

Bright tears still shining his eyes, but no longer _all_ of sadness, smiling a tiny (almost _secretive_) smile, Merlin watched the hand-_Freya's _hand-clutching the gleaming hilt of Excalibur-of _Hope_-as it sunk back under the softly rolling waves of the lake of Avalon.

~The End~


End file.
